


She Fights Fire With Gasoline

by impertinence



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinence/pseuds/impertinence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison left Beacon Hills when she was pretty young. Lately, she keeps getting pulled back. (Or, the Supernatural fusion where Lydia's a psychic and Allison's a hunter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> abby beta'd this, THANKS ABBY! 
> 
> I watched Motel California and was like "wouldn't it be cool if Allison was a demon hunter and Lydia was her psychic" and then I wrote this.

Allison was raised to be a hunter.

She doesn't ever remember being told that the things that go bump in the night are real. So many hunters had moments of awakenings, usually the murder of loved ones, but the Argents have been hunting for hundreds of years. She remembers the shadows and the far reach of demons, and has since she was able to remember things.

Dad was pissed when she struck out on her own. Argents stay together. She promised to come back to the house in Beacon Hills, but only when she was ready. Only when she's figured out who she is, aside from an Argent.

But then Mom dies, and Dad stops coming back to Beacon Hills. He ranges farther and farther, and when Scott calls them with a problem in Beacon Hills, Dad passes on Allison's number. He can't bear to go back.

She's there in two days, driving in after destroying a vamp nest in Chicago. Scott meets her at his place, out in the woods where his pack has plenty of room to range. "So," she says, sitting down across from him. "What is it?"

"A haunting," Scott says.

"You can take care of that on your own - you wouldn't have called me." Allison leans back in her chair and waits. Scott's a nice guy, very capable; right now he looks scared. Something else is going on.

"It's not just one ghost. They appear and then disappear." Scott grimaces. "Two people have already died, and there are five survivors. One of them saw a woman, one saw a vampire. One saw a demon. One saw a man. And one saw a wolf."

"So Beacon Hills is getting edgy."

"And we're the only pack in the area."

"Are people threatening you?" The Argents haven't always been friends with wolves, but Allison's never been one to obey tradition. Even Dad has come around, eventually. 

"Not yet, but people aren't exactly friendly when I go into town. And they're starting to get to Mom."

Definitely a problem, then. "Any newcomers?"

Scott shakes his head. "I've done my best to ferret it out, but nothing that I've noticed."

A resident of Beacon Hills, a longtime one, had to be involved. "This doesn't sound like a ghost," Allison says. "A spell gone wrong, maybe, or some kind of demon, but not a ghost."

"That's what I was thinking. We can pay."

"Scott. You know I don't want that."

"That doesn't mean I don't want to give it to you."

Allison's never been that hard up for cash - she does odd jobs, and takes money for her actual jobs sometimes. But it feels wrong taking money from Scott. "I'll do the job, and then you'll put me up for awhile. Deal?"

Scott smiles. As always, it's like the sun coming up. Allison's kind of glad she doesn't swing that way, or she'd have such a crush. "Deal."

The Argent house is kept relatively clean by a service that comes by once a month and makes sure nothing is getting too dusty, but it still feels a little funereal when Allison lets herself in. A few lightbulbs have burned out, and there's a very fine film of dust over the side table in her room. She sits down heavily in her bed and looks around. The walls are painted light blue, the decor impersonal. She hasn't lived here even semi-permanently since she was fourteen, and she's twenty-eight now.The coverlet is dark blue; she gets into pajamas and slips under it, putting her traditional knife and gun next to her. If it's a demon behind all this, they might sense her arrival. No sense in being sloppy. She's already double-checked all the locks and warded the house.

But sleep doesn't come easily. She knows it's a little ridiculous to think of Beacon Hills as her hometown; she didn't exactly grow up here. Dad and Mom took her all over the place, and she was homeschooled for all of elementary school, only going to middle and part of high school here. But part of her still feels like it's home - a touchstone, anyway. The Argent property, such as it is.

She's going over who it might be in her mind, an action as regular and predictable as her love of burgers when she's on the road. But she doesn't really know the Beacon Hills population well enough to say, and she's never known a demon with those powers of projection. So in the end, she rolls over and begins meditation, focusing on the image of a clear, quick-flowing stream until she falls asleep.

She has hazy dreams, red hair and frightened eyes. When she wakes up the next morning, she writes them down in her journal. It might mean nothing, but on a job implying some kind of psychic projection - well, Allison's not making any bets.

After some eggs and toast the next morning, Allison hits the streets. Scott's an unconventional Alpha, and a few of his pack live in town. She visits Stiles first.

"Allison Argent," he says, opening the door. He's a freelance writer, as far as Allison knows; the wrinkled plaid and laptop he's balancing on one arm support that. "What's up?"

"You know what's up," she says. "Scott called me in."

"Ah." Stiles sighs. "I kind of figured. Come in."

They settle in Stiles's office, Allison on the other side of his desk. There are papers everywhere - copy, some of them, but some of them research. Stiles might be human, but he's got more ways of finding out information than anyone at the Roadhouse, even. That's part of why Scott keeps him around.

The other part, of course, being their bond.

"Scott's been worried," Stiles says. He steeples his hands, one leg bouncing up and down in a quick rhythm. "Me, I've been equal parts curious and worried. What the hell kind of demon can project these images?"

"Nothing I've heard of," Allison says. "I doubt it's a demon. More likely, it's a psychic. Might be being controlled by a demon, though."

"Beacon Hills isn't that big, and I've dug through police reports, land purchases, new utility hookups, you name it." Stiles shakes his head. "No one new has come to town. No one with human needs, anyway. So how has a psychic been keeping it under wraps for so long, if they're powerful enough for this? Scott should've sniffed them out."

"I don't know," Allison says. "You've answered my questions about newcomers, though." She turns the thoughts over in her mind. "Is it possible someone's returned who already had a house here? The Argents -"

"Keep everything hooked up, yeah." Stiles stabs a finger at her. "It helps to have more money than God."

"Stocks," Allison says, spreading her hands. 

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles shuffles through some papers. "Maybe someone young - probably someone young. Staying with their parents? Let's see." He grabs a sheet of paper and squints at it. "Aw, fuck. Of course."

"Oh?"

Stiles waves the paper. "Beacon Hills events. I've been trying to figure out - not important. What's important is, the high school reunion is in three days."

Allison's stomach sinks. "That's a lot of people staying at their parents'."

"You bet it is." Stiles makes a face. "Also, I have to go."

"I don't," Allison says smugly. She started traveling once she turned fourteen. "Homeschooling and then a GED."

"We can't all be nomadic monster-killing badasses," Stiles says. "At least the reunion will give us a chance to sniff out a psychic."

"If that's it."

Stiles nods. "But it's my class, so it's been ten years. That's plenty of time for psychic power to develop where it didn't exist before. Or was dormant."

He speaks with more authority than he ever has before, in the times Allison's stopped by and hung out with Scott's pack. "You've been boning up on your paranormal knowledge."

Stiles looks moderately embarrassed. "It's been a year since me and Scott - I just feel like I should know things."

"I'm happy for you," Allison says.

"What about you?"

She spreads her hands. "I'm a hunter. I pick up nice girls, and then I leave them in their nasty-free towns."

"Nice girls, huh?"

Allison laughs. "Yeah, Stiles. Nice girls."

Stiles turns to his computer and opens up a file, tapping a couple times and making the printer start up. "The graduating class of 2014," he says. "You can't interview all of them, but this comes with superlatives."

"And a psychic might have a bit of an edge in that department," Allison finishes for him. "Excellent. Thanks, Stiles."

"I want this solved," he says. "Boyd's been seeing his sister."

Allison blinks. Scott hadn't told her that.

"Scott's keeping it under wraps, but he can't tell me what to do." Stiles hands over the paper, looking vaguely pleased with himself. "You'll solve this, and then I'll tell him I've been meddling in Boyd's business."

"Smart." Allison stands. "I'll see you when I see you," she says, and heads for the door.

"Be careful!" 

She doesn't look back. "I always am."

 

As soon as she's back at the Argent house, she studies the list. One name pops out right away. She'd forgotten about Lydia.

Even in middle school, Lydia had been queen bee. Allison hadn't been unpopular, exactly; Lydia being queen bee aside, their school wasn't really the type to have a ton of bullies. But she'd always watched Lydia from afar, and it wasn't until Allison made out with Christie from Boston when she was fifteen that Allison realized she'd had a crush on Lydia.

And apparently, in high school, Lydia had really wiped the floor with everyone. Valedictorian, prom queen, mostly likely to succeed _and_ most likely to go through six husbands in six years - the latter being an unofficial superlative put out in the student-run, adults-unaware yearbook.

Allison isn't going to jettison her theory about exceptional students being a good starting point. But thinking of interviewing Lydia kind of makes her want to.

She calls Stiles and gets Lydia's parents' address, then goes over. They're out, judging by the number of cars in the driveway; or at least, Allison assumes the cherry-red convertible is Lydia's. She hesitates for a second before telling herself to get it together, and then she knocks.

Lydia answers. "Can I help you?"

"Hi," Allison says. "Um, I'm Allison Argent. I'm here about the, ah -" Beacon Hills knows about the supernatural; they're one of those towns for which it's a not-quite-secret that plenty of people acknowledge. It's still hard to say _ghostly sightings_.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Hi, Allison. I remember you from middle school. You were a lot mousier then. And yes, you can come in and ask me about the ghostly visitations." She turns and walks into the house, flicking a finger in an apparent summons to Allison. "You're lucky I'm staying here until I get an apartment."

"An apartment?"

"I'm solving a Millennium Problem," Lydia says. "And my fashion line is doing well enough that I have _plenty_ of funding. Maybe I'll study werewolves, too."

Lydia hasn't changed a bit. Allison smiles in spite of herself, and follows Lydia into her living room. "You sound pretty sure you'll solve a Millennium problem."

"I built a fashion empire in five years," Lydia says. "Merchandising in Target for everything from shoes to activewear. I manage the business side wherever I choose to stay." She arches an eyebrow. "And I got a math PhD in four years. So, yes, I feel pretty confident."

Not capable of seeing the future, then. That's a bit of a relief. "So," Allison says. She pulls out a pad of paper. She could use a tablet like Dad, but it's easier for her to remember things if she physically writes it down. Lydia's eyes flick down to the pad of paper and she twists her lips a little, like she wants to laugh.

Allison frantically pushes down a blush and says, "So, have you experienced a visitation?"

"No," Lydia says. "Do you think someone could've come to the town thanks to our werewolves?" 

That makes Allison go still with wariness. "I don't think."

"Oh, relax." Lydia waves a hand. "I'm not saying I'm going to lead a witch - wolf - hunt. I'm saying it's kind of weird that no one talks about magic or werewolves in Boston or New York, but in this tiny town, we all know they exist."

"There are towns like that," Allison says. "Outsiders just view them as crazy."

"The truth will come out eventually." Lydia says it with shrewd certainty. 

"Be that as it may, I'm mostly just conducting interviews right now."

Lydia taps a finger against her dimple. It's - distracting. "Well," she says, drawing the word out. "I will say, I think it's entirely possible that whatever it is came here because Beacon Hills is one of those towns."

"So you think it's a newcomer?"

"I remember plenty of violence growing up here, but never anything like this." Lydia crosses her legs. She's still sitting bolt upright, perfect posture. "So yes, I think it's a newcomer."

"Psychic manifestation doesn't always happen early, which is why I'm here." Allison's not going to beat around the bush. "Have you noticed any manifestations of your power? Psychokinesis, hearing voices, anything like that?"

"Of course not. Don't you think I would have opened with that?"

It's been years since Allison knew Lydia. But Lydia doesn't blink. She looks a little impatient, like she's disappointed in Allison for thinking she'd keep something like that a secret.

But this is professional. Allison's not going to dwell on what Lydia thinks of her. "Can you think of anyone else who might have that manifesting? They'd be fairly young, possibly show signs of extraordinary ability of some kind early on."

"So like, half of Scott's pack?"

"Do you know all the members?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "It's obvious. Especially since Stiles has long since given up on his whole _thing_ for me. I only go for guys when they're a little more interesting than a nerdy kid in love with his best friend, you know?"

She's still kind of casually cruel, that much is obvious. Allison says, "Sure."

"But he's happy now. So." Lydia shrugs. "I can't think of anyone. Sorry."

Allison can't either, but that's never stopped her in towns she's never lived in, so it's not going to slow her down in Beacon Hills. She thanks Lydia for her time and leaves, stopping by two or three more houses before she calls it a day. Boyd doesn't know anything; neither does Danny (who now works in New York) or Jackson (a Wall Streeter, not that Allison sneers at them, or anything). At the end of the day, she orders dinner and eats it while examining some of the stuff Stiles sent over.

Her gut says Lydia has something to do with it. A PhD and a fashion empire in ten years is - that's exceptional. That's something worth watching. But Allison's a seasoned enough hunter to know that a person's gut can be wrong. She might be focused on Lydia, but her reasons for being so are - well, they're not entirely professional. And she knows it. So she tries to focus on other people.

Stiles is actually a good candidate. Or, he would be if he wasn't so close to Scott. If he was being interfered with demonically, Scott would be able to tell. Werewolves have a downright creepy ability to scent all kinds of things on a person. 

God, she's going in circles. At ten, she puts the papers away and goes to bed. She'll pound the pavement early tomorrow.

She dreams.

This time, she dreams of Lydia. She's lying in bed, red hair fanned out, the slightest smudge of not-fully-removed makeup around her eyes. Her sleep clothes are so much more casual than what she wears normally, just a tattered shirt from her own line, and some shorts. The sheets are twisted around her feet. Dream-Allison feels a tug of affection - for all that Lydia's neat and put together during the day, she's refreshingly _normal_ at night.

But then her brow wrinkles. She twitches, and her hands close into fists. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, and Allison -

Wakes with a shudder to see a ghost over her bed. It's woman with half her face rotting away, a knife raised in her hand. The salt around Allison's room is unbroken; this is a projection.

A dangerous one.

Allison doesn't even think. She raises her gun and shoots, rock salt flying through the projection. It doesn't make it disappear, but it flickers, and Allison picks up her knife and leans forward, slashing it through the projection. It's silver tipped and holy water dipped, as deadly as a hunter's knife can be. The projection screams - a harsh noise, ripping through the air - and disappears.

Allison flops down on the bed, her sudden sweat making her shiver. Well. Now she knows who's projecting. 

She should feel vindicated. Instead, she's just scared.

She visits Lydia the next day. She might be scared, but she's totally unwilling to let that control how she acts in Beacon Hills; her father would be ashamed. As soon as Lydia sees that it's her, she tries to shut the door, but Allison's ready for her. She jams her foot in and says, "You knew it was you yesterday."

"And I'm a great liar; what's your point?" Lydia scowls at her. 

"My point is, this is dangerous and needs to stop. And you need to help me make it stop."

Lydia stares at her for a long time. Allison waits; it's nowhere near night. She can take a few minutes to let Lydia deal with reality.

Lydia takes a step back, slowly. "Well." She smiles. It's bright, brittle, and entirely fake. "I guess you'd better come in, then."

Allison walks in warily, one hand on her knife. But however Lydia's projecting - or whoever's making her project - _whatever it is_ , it's not happening during the day.

Lydia's incredibly poised as she sits down on the couch. "I wasn't sure how to approach it," she says. Her lips are still thin, her diction precise. Allison, who's been reading people to save her own life since she was fourteen, can tell she's terrified. 

"You could have started by being honest."

"Of course. But how am I supposed to know you can be trusted?"

In spite of herself, Allison's kind of hurt by that. "I'm a friend."

"Of who, exactly?"

"Of - this is stupid. You know my family's lived here, we protected the town until Scott came into his own, we still come back, we're -"

"Yes, I know. Very impressive." Lydia doesn't look impressed. "But this is an entirely new thing, isn't it? It's coming from my head." She narrows her eyes. "And it's obvious you're scared."

That makes Allison uncomfortable; she does her best to be unreadable on jobs. "I'm not scared."

"You're also a liar."

"No, I'm - come on, Lydia. Can we please just talk about this without sniping at each other?"

Lydia looks at her seriously, and for a moment Allison's reminded of the girl from middle school - not how bright and fierce she was, but how easily she completed problems, how smart she was in spite of her obvious need to rule the school socially. 

But Allison blinks and that moment - whatever it was - is gone.

"Fine," Lydia says. "Have it your way. I don't know what's going on. I started being able to move objects that I wanted to about three months ago. I do plan to solve a Millennium Problem and I am extremely rich, but that's not why I came back to Beacon Hills. This is the only place I know of where I could get advice - talk to Scott and Stiles, that kind of thing." She tosses her hair and stares at Allison, like a challenge.

"That makes sense to me," Allison says. It's the best peace offering she can give. 

"Well, I'm glad it meets _your_ approval. The apparitions started a few weeks ago. I don't know what's causing them." The fear shows through a little more when Lydia adds, "And it's killing people."

"That's not you," Allison says. "No offense, I mean, you're powerful, but you're not powerful enough to go on a murder spree without even being in the same room as your victim."

"Morbid. Very morbid. But comfortingly so."

"That's what I was aiming for." Allison sighs. "Okay, so there's someone in or around town who's doing this, someone we don't know."

"Don't you mean something?"

"Demons have personalities."

"Does that make it harder to kill them?"

"No," Allison says. She sounds flat even to her own ears. "Their hosts, sometimes. When they're not too far gone."

"Stiles has told me." Lydia presses her hands together in her lap. "I want this solved. What can I do to help?"

"Not much, since you're untrained."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Yes, Allison, I'm untrained. Do you really want to get into a fight over my ability to learn things?"

"Psychic phenomena -"

"Is probably not as difficult as mastering the finer aspects of quantum physics in an effort to understand mathematical representations of space. I think I'll be fine."

Lydia really hasn't changed. "Fine," Allison says. "I don't have any ability myself, so I'm going to have to kind of play this by ear."

"Before we get all student-teacher, do you mind telling me what, exactly, I'll be doing?"

Allison doesn't want to freak her out, but she also wants to solve this case, and Lydia's her best lead. Lydia's _the_ lead. "You're not being possessed."

Lydia's eyes widen a little, so Allison quickly says, "Not like with Peter. But a demon can take leaking psychic energies - which you have, since you haven't learned shielding - a demon can take those and manipulate them. Manipulate your brain. Not climbing inside, but just kind of...tugging. It leaves an imprint, a faint sense of the demon. We might be able to use that to track it."

"Me."

"What?"

"You meant, we might be able to use you to track it. You, meaning me." Lydia rolls her eyes. "And here I thought leaving Beacon Hills would get me out of all of this stuff."

"It has a tendency to follow you."

"What would you know about that? You chase it."

Allison doesn't answer that one. Instead, she says, "Okay. Focus on a single point."

"A single point -"

"Not mathematically. A rock, a fountain, something in your mind. Come on, I saw you with Wheel of Time books in middle school, I know you know what I'm talking about."

Lydia sighs, but then she's silent - and a moment later, the TV turns on.

"That's what I'm capable of doing. And I didn't feel anything demony."

"You're too outwardly-focused. It's common, with new psychics." Allison decides not to tell her how powerful people who manifest late tend to be. Either it'll go to her head, or it'll terrify her. "You should pull all that energy in, and see if you can detect anything off about it."

"Such specific instructions," Lydia says, but she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Allison waits.

"I feel...strange," Lydia says. She wrinkles her brow. "I don't know why."

"That's the point of the exercise," Allison says. "You should be able to feel yourself - the energy flowing through you."

Lydia nods. "This overturns at least three papers I've read this week," she says absently as her hands twitch on her knees.

Allison laughs. "You knew about this stuff already."

"Werewolves can be reconciled with the - oh."

"Lydia?"

"Darkness," she says. "Pain."

Allison's stomach clenches. "Yeah, I was - worried about that."

"Obviously." Lydia's hands twitch on her knees. "It's...it's a woman. I think. Is there such a thing as female demons?"

"Definitely," Allison says. "What else are you getting?"

"Close." Lydia winces. "So close, and not happy, and -" Abruptly her whole body jerks and she opens her eyes, breathing hard. "I think she almost caught me."

If the demon can reach back along their connection, then Allison's worried. More worried than she was before, anyway. "Almost being the key word." Allison does her best to smile at Lydia. "So that's that, huh?"

"I hate useless phrases like that." Lydia glares, like doing so will make Allison apologize and completely change her phrasing. "How do we find it?"

"You're a kind of homing beacon," Allison says, "But you obviously need more practice."

Lydia looks nettled, but doesn't say anything.

"Next time, I'll set up some basic wards, and we'll try a spell."

"You're a witch?"

"I'm a hunter. I know spells for that."

Lydia cocks her head, expression distant. For a second, she looks - bigger than she is. "You'd be a good witch," she says.

And as abruptly as it began, the moment's over. "Thank you," Lydia says. She stands. "Let's reconvene around...does six work for you?"

"Sure," Allison says. "I'm going to interview Scott's pack today."

Lydia sniffs. "Don't come back smelling like dog." She moves towards the door.

Just before she closes it behind Allison, she says, "And be careful. Please."

She shuts the door in Allison's face.

 

The road out to Scott's house is long and winding. Stiles, Allison knows, stays in town easily half the time; she's not sure how that works, with Scott and Stiles's whole thing, but it seems to go okay for them. Scott lives out near the state park, about twenty minutes outside Beacon Hills proper. To get there, she turns into a gravel road that turns into dirt about half a mile outside his rambling house.

Derek's sitting on the steps. He doesn't smile when he sees Allison, but then, Derek rarely smiles. She smiles at him, and says, "Is Scott here?"

"Is this about the killings?"

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't." Allison's not the most responsible Argent steward. Of the legacy, maybe, but not the house.

"He's inside."

Derek doesn't move, so Allison awkwardly sidles past him. The tone inside the house, though, is completely different. Scott and Stiles are wrestling on the floor, and Cora and Boyd are laughing, egging them on.

It's not Derek's fault that his family issues are, well, legion. But Allison's still glad he's outside.

"Hey, Scott."

Scott stops, with a wiggling Stiles in a headlock. "Oh, hey."

"Hey." Allison laughs a little, in spite of herself. "Got a minute?"

"For you? Ten." Scott release Stiles, kissing the back of his neck before standing. "You want to interview my pack?"

"If you could collect them, that would be great."

Scott goes outside and howls with easy authority. The pack collects quickly: Stiles, Derek, Boyd, Erica, the twins, Isaac, Danny, and Cora. Only Danny and Stiles are human. Once they're all assembled in the living room, Allison says, "The town sees you all as the source of most supernatural things in Beacon Hills."

"Which is wrong," Cora says, scowling.

"I know. I hunt demons for a living - well. As my calling." Allison shrugs. "Werewolves are low-key. Sometimes you guys are murderers, but most of the time you're just fine. You're not my concern."

"The psychic," Boyd says.

"Yes," Allison says. Then, "Wait, how did you know?"

"My sister was a psychic."

Allison remembers the accident. She says, "Got it. Well. I have the psychic, and she knows it's a demon holding her, but we don't know where that demon is. Have you guys sniffed out anyone new lately?"

"You mean, aside from the nine million people packing the town for our crappy reunion, including their husbands, wives, ugly children, and broken-down grandmas?" Erica rolls her eyes. "No. Not that we can tell."

"Erica," Scott says. He widens his eyes at Allison. "We'll look. But it will be hard, with the reunion."

"Which is probably the plan," Allison says. "Using Ly - using the psychic's power, the entire town could be in danger."

"Lydia," Stiles says.

Allison doesn't so much as blink. "I'm sorry?"

"Using Lydia's power, you mean."

Stiles stares at her, and - he was frank and kind of scary when he was sixteen, with an edge of power he didn't know what to do with. Not power like Scott, but power like Allison: the ability to identify the truth and adapt to it, even when the truth is completely crazy. She knows now that she can't lie to him. 

"Yes. Lydia. But she's under my protection."

"The pack -"

"Is yours and Scott's responsibility, I know." Allison holds her hands together so that she doesn't do anything stupid with them. "But this town is also the Argents' to protect, and psychic or not, Lydia's human. I'm helping her. Don't get in my way."

"We won't," Scott says. "But what if we helped her sniff out the demon?"

He means literally sniff, Allison knows - werewolves and their freaky sense of smell are something else. 

"That would be helpful," Allison says. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I'm doing witchcraft."

Any other wolf would snarl. Even Isaac looks on the verge. But Scott, being who he is, just looks kind of discomfited. "Okay. Tomorrow. But early, right?"

"Early," Allison says. "I promise."

Scott nods. "Good. Now let's order lunch."

That's how Allison ends up sprawling on the porch with half of Scott's pack. Scott is propped up against the porch bannister, one arm loosely around Stiles as he eats his pizza. After a few minutes of silence, he says, "You ever wonder what would've happened if you'd stayed for high school?"

"I've heard high school is awful. And I'm not particularly interested in testing the theory." Allison raises an eyebrow. "Plus, a hunter has to earn her stripes somehow."

"Not literal stripes, I hope," Stiles says.

Some hunters get tattoos for big kills, but that's not really Allison's style. So she says, "No."

"Good to know." Stiles angles his pizza so that the cheese slides off and into his mouth.

That makes Allison laugh a little. Some things never change.

She leaves just as the sun's going down, heading straight for Lydia's. Her car is just a standard Toyota hatchback, but she's got all the usual supplies in the back. She brings her witchcraft duffel to the door.

Lydia opens the door when she's still coming up the steps. "My parents are gone," she says.

Lydia's parents were rarely around, even in middle school. Allison nods.

Lydia visibly hesitates, then says, "I felt you coming."

"How far?"

"I'm not sure. Before you turned onto my street."

Allison doesn't shiver, doesn't let Lydia see just how scary that is. But she does say, "Impressive. Going to let me in?" and hefts her bag.

"Obviously." Lydia rolls her eyes and walks into the house. Allison blinks when they go upstairs and into an unfinished room. "My dad likes to remodel things, and always forgets he travels," Lydia says. "Will this space work?"

"I'll need to mark up the floor."

"Good," Lydia says, a little sharply. "Then he can wonder."

Allison nods and drops to her knees, pulling out a piece of chalk. The diagrams for mental amplification are relatively simple, flowing lines and characters, of medieval-era Muslim origin. They fostered psychic training in their universities, and used the spells to amplify natural ability, control overly-strong amateur ability, and otherwise train and seek out innovation in the realm of psychic ability. Allison draws out protection, control, and a few Celtic runes for seeking. Hunters don't bother with why various regions' cultural and religious symbols work for the occult. Allison has some private theories about the universality of human nature, but she's not Ash: she can't pull off saying that at a hunter bar without sounding like an idiot.

"Okay," Allison says after she draws out the salt circle and lays out the basil and heather. "You ready?"

"This looks like a bad TV set," Lydia says.

"Not that far from accurate." Allison shrugs. "It'll work, though. Do you want to do this or not?"

"I do," Lydia says. "Believe me, I do."

"Good. Then let's do it."

Lydia sits at the center of the circle. Allison opens the book with the tracking spell - an old leather-bound journal with Grandpa's scribblings in it - and says, making her voice as hypnotic as possible, "I want you to focus on the air around you."

She's not sure if Lydia's brow-wrinkle is condescension or concentration, but either way, Allison feels the shimmering of amplified psychic energy in the air.

"Okay," Lydia says. "I think I've got it. What now?"

"Now, you focus on the demon, and I - chant."

Allison reads while Lydia mutters under her breath. Allison's magical aptitude is so low it's almost laughable, but she can still feel the expansion of Lydia's mind, the way she settles into her power.

After almost five very long minutes of Allison repeating the spell and the power growing, Lydia says, "She's west of here. In the hills."

"Where?"

"She's avoiding the werewolves to the north." Lydia shakes her head. "She's...hungry, she wants people, but she can't -" Lydia's eyes fly open.

Allison shuts the book. "She almost found you?"

"She's off 299," Lydia says. "Maybe fifteen miles east of here."

"And -"

"I'm not a wizard," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "If I'd pressed any closer, she would've felt me. And I'm already probably going to be possessed tonight, so -"

"No," Allison says. "I won't let that happen."

"What are you going to do, read spells all night?"

"I warded the room," Allison says. "We can sleep in shifts. Trade off."

"Oh, so it's a sleepover now?"

Allison refuses to blush. She refuses. She - she's blushing. "Not like that."

"Fine," Lydia says. "I suppose, if you can keep me from being all - controlled, that I can put up with a temporary roommate."

Allison really hopes it's not permanent enough to warrant the word. "Also, it'll keep people from dying."

"Whatever." Lydia waves a hand. "I assume you have stuff in your car. Go get it. I'll order dinner - it's late."

This is about as domestic as Allison's ever been - or at least, as much as she's been since she left home. It's kind of disconcerting. She smiles uncertainly and goes downstairs.

They eat Thai while poring over the books Allison has on demonic psychic influence. Everyone knows about the Winchester case, but since it was largely one of ineptitude, Allison's not too interested in studying it. There are other cases, though, psychics whose minds have been influenced by demons. They're disturbing to read, especially if Allison's control slips and she imagines them happening to Lydia. 

Around ten, Allison says, "We should start our shifts. Do you want first watch?"

"First watch." Lydia looks at Allison with an oddly pitying expression. "Wow."

Allison shifts, uncomfortable. "It's a common expression -"

"Oh, honey, I know. In some circles, anyway." Lydia picks up their dishes and says, "I'm not tired. You can have it. I'll set up an air mattress."

Twenty minutes later, Allison's trying to sleep. It's even harder than it usually is; even with her hand on the hilt of her knife, Allison's uncomfortable. Lydia's sitting in a chair at the doorway, a gun awkwardly propped in her hands, the circle of salt unbroken. It's enough, or at least, it will hopefully be enough; the air smells like basil and heather, and Allison's staring up at a symbol on the ceiling. But the commonality in all the accounts Allison read earlier is that the demons were taking advantage of people with relatively small psychic potential. Lydia's in a whole different category. Allison doesn't want to call in the cavalry, but she doesn't like her chances against a demon with that kind of power.

At least she has Scott and his pack. Eventually, she falls asleep, running over the protection spells in her head.

They each get six hours of sleep - not enough, but better than nothing. By eleven, they're driving out to Scott's. They'll probably have to follow in a car if Scott gets the demon's scent, but first they have to make it out west. "I'm absolutely sure," Lydia says when Allison asks her again. She says it with an eyeroll, in fact, and adds, "Plus, we need to get this wrapped up quickly. The reunion's in two days, and I am not missing it because of some demon."

"That's definitely a priority," Allison says, as dryly as she knows how.

"Of course it is."

They meet Scott and Erica outside of Scott's house. Ms. Morrell is there too - Marin, Allison supposes she should think of her as. She knows through Scott that Erica and Marin have been involved for awhile, and that Marin is an actual, legitimate witch, which is a relief. They could use one of those. "Hey."

"Nice knife," Marin says.

"I've seen bigger." Erica curls her lips.

Allison laughs. "Good to see you again, too. Are we going to do this, or what?"

"Oh, we are," Erica says.

"Marin's going to get the scent from your memories," Scott tells Lydia. "And then we'll hunt."

His smile looks sunny enough, but Allison knows him well enough to see the sharp edges. She nods and says, "And we'll follow in the truck."

"Come here," Marin says, holding out her hands.

A few minutes later, Scott and Erica have changed and are howling, following the scent. They keep to the side of the road, so Allison can follow them, Marin in the front seat and Lydia in the back.

Ten miles in, Lydia says, "I should let you know if I feel anything, right?"

"Absolutely," Allison says.

"I feel something."

The wolves stop dead. Allison slams her foot on the brakes and pulls over to the shoulder, pulling out her bow. It won't kill a demon - that's what the knife is for - but it'll slow it down.

"Over there." Lydia nods at the opposite side of the highway. "There's a - house. About half a mile off the road."

This is weird, Allison thinks. Demons normally prefer living where, well, people are. They don't like ramshackle shacks in the middle of nowhere. There's no one to feed on, no one to fuck with. Demons, Allison knows, exist in no small part because of the chaos of humanity. Hence, they tend to stick to cities.

"I know it sounds off," Lydia says. "But -"

"We believe you." Allison doesn't like the placating tone in Lydia's voice. Lydia should, ideally, sound domineering at all times. "Let's go."

They go single-file into the woods, Erica and Scott flanking Allison, Lydia, and Marin. Lydia gets tenser the deeper they go into the woods; she's almost vibrating when they come to the edge of a clearing.

There's a cabin in the center of it, a single tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. It would look idyllic, were it not for the wilted, tangled flowers surrounding the foundation. Allison approaches cautiously, bow up.

The demon greets them at the door.

It - she - is in a human body, with long, dark hair and sharp eyes. She smiles, and her teeth are regular human teeth, but Allison feels like they _should_ be pointed.

"Well, well," she says.

Erica growls.

"Erica," Marin says.

The growling stops. The demon's smile gets wider. "Living in sin, I see."

"Who isn't, these days?" Marin says. "Allison. Shoot her."

"I don't think you want to do that," the demon says.

Lydia starts screaming. 

Allison doesn't panic. She expected this. She's got maybe fifteen seconds before Lydia loses the battle with the demon and it has complete control of her mind. Fortunately, those are fifteen seconds where it will be distracted. Allison lets one arrow fly, reloads, and lets another go. The demon snarls and charges for her, but Allison's ready, knife in hand -

And suddenly she's pinned to the ground, along with everyone else. Fuck.

"You know," Lydia - the demon - says, "This was altogether too easy."

"You haven't won." The demon's host is lying on the ground, twitching. Lydia's body is twitching too, her eyes hooded, her mouth in a sneer. "You haven't come close to winning."

"You dull girl. Do you really think -"

"Lydia!" Marin says. "I call to the true source of all Creation -"

As the spell went on, Allison felt the magic gathering, gathering - and when it hit a point, she struck, jumping over to the demon's prone body and plunging the knife into its heart. It wasn't an angel-forged blade, but it had been made by the most powerful witch in North America, and a heart-strike would kill the demon. Yellow light streaked through the host's body, and it - and the demon - were gone.

"Well," Lydia says before Allison even has time to draw breath to ask her if she's okay. "That was embarrassing."

"I wanted a fight," Erica says. Growls, really. When other people look at her askance, she says, "Not that I'm not glad this ended so quickly. Obviously."

"I think that went well," Scott says. He turns to Lydia, brow furrowed. "That is, if you're okay."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

"You're -"

"I'm _fine_." Lydia glares at all of them, her gaze landing on Allison like she's daring her to say something. Allison holds up her hands, her bow heavy in one of them. 

"Good," Lydia says. She turns up her nose - actually raises her head, in a move Allison remembers from middle school, though her crush was a lot more innocent back then - and says, "Let's go, then."

Lydia wants to pretend she's not a member of Scott's pack, and Allison supposes she's technically not. But they all end up back at Scott's anyway, devouring Chinese and watching the Days of Our Lives episodes that Stiles has, for some reason, insisted on keeping on the TV's drive.

"Will you be staying for the reunion?" Scott says.

Allison laughs a little. The sound comes out harder than she intended. "The reunion for a graduation I didn't attend, you mean?"

Scott looks embarrassed, which makes Allison feel a little bad. "I just - we like having you around."

Allison forces herself to soften her tone when she says, "No. There's a job in Kansas City that I got a call about yesterday. The - whatever it is - is only killing every month or so, so there's plenty of time for me to drive down."

"And no other hunters who could take care of it?"

That comes from Erica, which surprises Allison. They don't exactly know each other. "Sure," she says finally. "But no one who - hunters have networks. If Ellen thinks I should take this job, then I'll take it."

"It's good that you let some woman order you around," Lydia says.

Allison wants to leave. She feels almost trapped, like people want her to stay to control her, like her grandfather wanted her to stay, and she can't -

"Guys, ease off."

Scott's the happiest person Allison knows, but when he gets authoritative, people listen. Everyone lays off Allison after that, and they have a good night of hanging out and fucking around before Allison finally goes back to the Argent house to collect her things.

She's driving out of town when an unexpected bolt of nostalgia hits her, and she stops on a hill, pulling off to the side of the road and going out to stare at the lights of Beacon Hills in the distance. It's not something she ever really thought about, having a long-term home; she was raised to this life. She's not like the hunters who had a wife die, or a child, or a husband, and who long for the days when they had a white picket fence and some idyllic suburban life. Her family are hunters; it's what defines them. She's not going to just give all of that up.

A breeze starts up and makes her shiver. Scott is - was - is so happy, and always has been, even in the days when he was building his pack and encountering difficulty. She shouldn't intrude on that. And Lydia - well. With Lydia, it's a dumb crush, that's all.

That's _all_.

She puts a hand on the hilt of the knife at her hip and squeezes it. This is who she is, and she's going to go down to Kansas City and do some cleaning up. No more thoughts about settling down; it's not happening, anyway.

She goes back to her car and turns the radio on. AM, classical music. Exactly what she needs as Beacon Hills recedes into the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

Kansas City is considerably simpler than Beacon Hills, and not just because Lydia's not there. Since the Winchesters made everything go to hell - literally - there have been demons all over the place, to the point where even a lot of newer hunters think being a hunter is all about killing demons. Hell, these days there's a preponderance of demon-killing blades and people who are willing to sell you devil's trap stencils. 

But hunting is not, in fact, all about killing demons. Hunting is about killing _evil_ , and while it would be simpler if all evil came in the form of demons, that's just not how the world works.

Of course, Allison can't actually kill the worst evil in the world. She can't do anything about the kind of evil that sits in governments or is entirely human but preys on children. But she can, and does, banish the spirit killing janitors in Kansas City's city hall. She thinks she's gotten out of there clean, no drama and no problems, until she starts having visions.

That alone doesn't make her panic. Her father's had visions a few times. Anyone - excluding a very few people - can have visions. But their vividness, and suddenness, suggests a strong cause. So she thinks about it for long enough to conclude that it must be the chest they found back in Beacon Hills.

When she realizes it, she goes out and buys a 6-pack of a local brewery's best IPA, sits in front of the shitty motel TV, and quietly curses to herself. She doesn't _want_ to go back to Beacon Hills. And technically, she doesn't have to; she knows other psychics. But Lydia's the most powerful.

And - okay. Part of her wants to. Allison's always believed in self-awareness; she gets that she likes Lydia, and wants to spend time with her, and all that jazz. But just because she likes Lydia, doesn't mean she has to do anything about it. Allison's in control of her emotions.

She calls Lydia.

"What do you want, I'm getting my nails done," Lydia says. 

"I'm - that chest I found. It's giving me dreams."

"And here I thought I was the - special one."

"I'd like for you to take a look at it," Allison says. Her stomach is in knots. "If you don't mind."

"I've been working on improving my skills in that area," Lydia says. "I'll see you in, what, two days? Book a hotel. This isn't a sleepover." She hangs up.

Allison kind of hates herself for being really happy about that.

She takes off the next morning. She pushes the speed limit more than a little - not enough to get pulled over, though. The Argent family is old and distinguished, but that doesn't mean Allison wants her face in any kind of database.

She stays in the Argent house. Two days after calling Lydia, she goes over to her house.

Lydia opens the door and says, "What are you, staying in the Super 8?"

"The Argent house."

"I thought you hated that place."

"Better than the Super 8." Allison pointedly lifts the chest. "This is heavy."

Something happens with Lydia's expression, but it's there and gone in a second. "Sorry. Come in."

It's not until they're sitting in the living room that Lydia says, "I've been practicing."

"Have you been training with anyone?"

"Derek knows a bit. I've been working with him." Lydia tosses her head. "But I'm better."

"Of course," Allison says. She does her best to not look amused. "I wouldn't expect anything else."

"So," Lydia says, running her hands over the chest. "What kind of dreams have you been having, exactly?"

"Visions," Allison says. "Old men, clocks, mountains being worn away by time. That kind of thing. I haven't tried to open the chest - it could be dangerous."

Lydia looks pointedly at the knife at Allison's side. "You might want to take that out," she says, and rests her hand on the chest. The locks glow, then fall away. Lydia opens the chest.

Allison's half expecting disaster to strike, in some form or another; she's not expecting a smooth interior, full of water.

"I didn't _hear_ it," she says. 

Lydia's closed her eyes. "It's not water when the chest is closed," she says. "It's the suggestion of water, but it's only filled when you open the chest. This is old magic, angel magic."

"No," Allison says, "no, I am not getting involved with heaven and hell. That's Winchester shit, the Argents don't deal in that."

Lydia says, "The chest chose you. It's your heritage. Even now, it whispers to you...it wants you to know what it is."

"Well?" Allison says. "What is it?"

Lydia opens her eyes. Her pupils are wide and her gaze is far away. "The fountain of youth."

Allison laughs. "No, but really."

Lydia blinks, and her pupils go back to normal. "Really. God, Allison, this of all things is what you don't believe?"

"The fountain of youth is a myth. No hunter's ever heard of it."

"Well, now one has." Lydia purses her lips. "I feel like I should be charging you."

"For what?"

"Well, I have to store it, obviously. You can't just carry the fountain of youth around."

"You said it was calling for me."

"Well, obviously," Lydia says. "It was made by your ancestor."

"There's no record -"

"If you made something literally every human on Earth would kill for, would you tell anyone?"

Allison thought she might, if only to brag. But it wasn't like she could tell Lydia that. "Well. Thanks. Do you have somewhere safe to put it?"

"My house is warded now." Lydia smiles. It's the smug, proud smile that Allison remembers from high school - but this one is a lot more mature, and Allison's way more aware of how it makes her feel. Damn it.

"Excellent," she says, and stands up. "Well - great. I have to drive to Seattle, so I guess I'll see you later."

Lydia stands. "What's in Seattle?"

"A demon," Allison says. "He's set up shop preying on Space Needle tourists. I'm going to kill him."

"Good luck," Lydia says. She sees Allison out.

Demons are harder to hunt than your average ghost or poltergeist, but insomuch as anyone can tell - it's not like hunters are an easy group to profile demographically - they're not the primary cause of death for hunters. Vamps, werewolves, pagan deities, ghosts, all of those kill more hunters than demons. Part of that is that demons are relatively rare; even now, post-Hell opening, you're more likely to find a ghost than a demon - regardless of what new hunters think. But the biggest reason demons are less deadly is because hunters prepare for them more. The world of hunters is a world full of guys obsessed with machismo, who don't take the appropriate steps to protect themselves against something like a ghost. They think they're better than that - and then they die. Allison never makes that mistake. She prepares for ghost and demon alike.

She has three knives, an enchanted gun, and a crossbow on her when she starts stalking the demon. It's living in an abandoned warehouse on the water, but it spends most of its time by the Space Needle. The body it chose is a young white male, charming, easy to trust. Allison knows from news clippings that it takes young women back to its warehouse, strings them up, and cuts them open. Slowly. The hearts disappear - Allison assumes it eats them. The bodies wash up on the docks a few days later.

Allison really, really wants to kill this thing.

It only takes a few hours of stalking before he finds a victim. She fits the profile (demons and sociopaths aren't that far apart, really): young, light-colored hair, gullible. He gets into a cab with her. Allison puts her car into gear and follows.

It - he - is sloppy; he doesn't check for a tail. Allison parks a block from the warehouse and creeps closer.

A single demon is standing watch outside a loading dock door. Allison tosses a pebble against the loading dock and then, when the demon turns, slits its throat. The enchanted knife does the job; the demon dies with the host.

Allison doesn't have many qualms about killing hosts. Most of them die after the possession, anyway. And she can't risk one getting away while she does an exorcism.

The warehouse is dark and dank, so Allison's not surprised that a demon likes it. It's easy to find him; he's chuckling under a single spotlight in the middle of the warehouse.

"Beg," he says as Allison creeps closer. "Please, beg. I love when they beg."

The woman lifts her chin and doesn't say anything. She's tied to the chair and isn't trying to get free; Allison guesses she's accepted her death. Smart woman. If Allison wasn't here, then she'd definitely die. 

"I guess I'll have to make you beg," he says, and raises a hand.

Damn it. Allison raises her bow and shoots three arrows in rapid succession. They pierce his wrists and his midsection. He stumbles back, and Allison leaps into the light, knife flashing.

"Bitch," he snarls, and reaches for her.

If he grabs her, it's over. Allison dodges and weaves and then, when she has a clear sightline, throws the knife.

It lands in the demon's neck. Light flashes, and he dies.

"Oh my god," the woman says from behind her. "I...oh my god."

"Hi," Allison says. She retrieves her knife and wipes it on her jeans - blood comes out. She pulls her arrows out, too - she has someone make them, but they're spelled not to break, and that comes at a hefty price. "Here, let me untie you."

The woman's stiff and mistrusting as Allison does it. "I can give you a ride," Allison says.

The woman shakes her head. "I'll take a taxi," she says. "He didn't even take my wallet, he just…"

"I know." Allison doesn't reach out to her. This isn't the kind of woman who'd appreciate that. "He's a scumbag, and a murderer, and now he's dead."

"Will you get in trouble?"

Allison shrugs. "They won't find anything on the body, and now that it's - " She can't explain what happens to human bodies after demons inhabit them. "It's not a problem," she says finally.

"Thank you," the woman says. She edges away from Allison, still wary. "Thank you," she says again, and leaves the warehouse.

Allison looks at the body, then up into the rafters of the warehouse. She sighs and sketches out a bow. "And the crowd goes wild," she mutters, and goes back out to her car.

She's poring over news sites in her motel the next morning, looking for another case, when Lydia calls. 

"Hello?" Allison says. She doesn't want to make any assumptions about why Lydia might've called, but -

"I'm in trouble," Lydia says. "Are you still in Seattle?"

"Yes?"

"Stay where you are." Lydia clears her throat, then says, "I think I can find you. And if I'm on the move, they can't find me. I'll be there by tonight, I've got a flight booked."

Allison doesn't generally recommend flying when something supernatural is going on, but she knows better than to get in Lydia's way. "I'll see you then," she says.

"Excellent," Lydia says. "I hope you're not staying in some rat trap."

"Well, I haven't seen any rats yet."

"How promising," Lydia says, and hangs up.

Allison's smiling a little. Damn it. "Get it together," she mutters to herself, and goes back to the news sites.

She's awakened at 2 AM that night by a knock on her door. Probably Lydia, but hunters don't live to almost-30 without being careful. She takes a knife and creeps towards the door.

"Allison, quit reenacting scenes from some dumb cop show and let me in," Lydia says. Her tone is distinctly irritated.

"Fine." Allison opens the door. "Christo," she says.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Should I levitate some objects to prove I'm not a demon?"

"Can't be too careful," Allison says. She puts the knife back on the side table.

It's then that she realizes she rented a room with a single bed. "Um."

"Oh, relax. I can sleep with you. I'm too tired to explain it all." Lydia looks at the circle of salt. "Good, it's not broken." She turns and hefts a huge suitcase over the line. It's some designer thing, done up in deep purple and turquoise. "I wore pajamas on the plane. _Pajamas_. I'm going to sleep, and you're not going to say a word about how I look in the morning."

"Okay," Allison says. This is the hurricane side of Lydia, the one she rarely sees.

"Good," Lydia says, and climbs into the bed, on the unused side. She's asleep almost immediately.

Allison's really, really not sure what she's gotten herself into, but she knows she's slow and ineffective when sleep deprived. She gets into the bed, tells her heart to calm the fuck down, and falls asleep quickly.

She wakes up the next morning to Lydia sitting in a chair pulled up to the bed, staring at her.

"Jesus!" Allison bolts upright. It's 8 AM, way later than she normally wakes up.

"Your dreams are loud," Lydia says.

"You shouldn't be able to sense them, you've hardly been training for any time at all."

"Well, I can," Lydia says. She sniffs. "And that's a problem, apparently."

"I'm going to brush my teeth and get us some food," Allison says. "There's a McDonald's across the street."

"I know. Because you're staying at a truck stop." Lydia's glare says she doesn't approve of that, at all.

"We can't all stay at the Ritz," Allison says. Well - technically she could, with Argent money. But she gets enough grief from other hunters for her lineage as it is.

She goes into the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and tosses cold water on her face. "Any requests?" she says, shrugging into her jacket.

Lydia purses her lips. "From McDonald's? Get me something that's not likely to make me vomit."

"Yeah, okay," Allison says, and leaves.

It's chilly in Seattle, even though it's only October. Allison hunches her shoulders in her jacket and ignores the misty spray of wind.

Fifteen minutes later, she's back with two egg McMuffins - and hash browns for her. "Here," she says. "Guaranteed not to make you puke _or_ fat."

"You spoil me," Lydia says. She makes a face when she bites into it, but she doesn't complain.

Once they've finished their food, Allison says, "So. What's going on?"

Lydia taps her foot on the chair. It occurs to Allison that she hasn't moved since she woke Allison up, and the chair has a clear sightline to the door. "Lydia," Allison says with more urgency. "What's happening?"

"I'm being hunted," Lydia says.

That's - not what Allison was expecting. "By what? Can you tell?"

"No one has shown up at my doorstep. Yet," Lydia says. "But every time I use my abilities for anything more than something really minor, I can feel them. Looking." She shivers, then looks irritated with herself for doing it. "It's annoying. And I want it to stop."

"There are people who hunt psychics," Allison says. She's thinking hard, going through what the Argents know of psychics. There are so many cults devoted to the discovery and use of psychics among humans alone - and then, of course, there's vampires who are devoted to turning psychics, demons who want to possess them, and so on. Most psychics learn from a young age to deal with the need to defend themselves, but Lydia obviously doesn't fall into that category.

"How are you being taught now?" Allison says. "Who was training you?"

"Derek helped, in his grouchy way," Lydia says. "And I've been training remotely with a psychic in Tennessee."

"Remotely?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Skype, Allison."

"Oh." Allison can feel herself blushing like she's a teenager again. "Right, of course."

"So I can continue doing that," Lydia says. "While we travel."

"Wait, we?"

"You can't know what's coming after me, and I'm not trained enough yet to find out." Lydia's ticking points off on her fingers. Her long, polished fingers. Allison looks at her own hands. At least she got a manicure recently. "You can protect me, so I'm traveling with you."

"You can't go with me on hunts," Allison manages to say through the whirl of thoughts accosting her. "It's just not practical."

"I'm aware," Lydia says. "Lots of time sitting in hotel -" She wrinkles her nose. "Motel rooms. But it will give me time to practice, and then we can hunt down whoever's trying to find me, and hurt them."

"I don't hurt humans," Allison says.

Lydia smiles. "I'm starting to become willing to."

Allison's pretty sure that's a threat directed at whoever's hunting Lydia, but not 100%. Luckily, there's very little Lydia could do to harm Allison. The necklace she always wears is cute and in style, and it's also spelled with more protection charms than most hunters' safe houses.

"Right," Allison says. "Well, there's some kind of pagan god thing going on in Indiana. You up for a road trip?"

"Isn't there anything closer?"

Allison shrugs. "I don't always stay on the west coast. There are only so many hunters. We go where the job takes us."

"Fine," Lydia says. "Then, I guess. Can we go to Boston after? I like Boston."

"We'll see," Allison says. "Lydia, this isn't a vacation."

Lydia gives her the evil eye. "I know." She finishes her sandwich and stands up, tossing her hair. "I'm going to shower."

Allison packs the few belongings she left out, scrubs the wards off the windows, and tries very hard not to think about Lydia naked just a few feet from her. When Lydia emerges - forty minutes later; what was she even doing in there? - Allison goes to shower. She's in and out in ten minutes, braiding her hair and putting on light makeup. She might not be Lydia, but she does like looking good, even if she's going to spend all day driving.

"Off we go," she says, grabbing her bag.

"Don't we have to check out?"

Allison just barely manages to not laugh. "I paid in cash."

"Oh," Lydia says, and grabs her suitcase. "Let's go, then."

Allison's car is nice and runs smoothly, but Lydia's fidgeting barely an hour in. "It's a two-day drive to Indiana," Allison says. "You might as well settle in."

"I keep getting - glimpses of things," Lydia says. "It's intrusive. And shouldn't you be looking at a map?"

Allison does laugh then. "I've been doing this since I was in middle school. Trust me, I can get from Seattle to Indiana."

"Well, you can't prove the axiom of choice," Lydia says. But she doesn't snap it; she only sounds amused. When Allison glances over, she's smiling.

"True," Allison says. "Did you bring a book?"

"If by a book you mean a Kindle, yes." Lydia twists around to grab her purse from the back. Allison keeps her eyes on the road. "Should I read out loud?"

"Nah, I zone out when I'm driving."

"Tell me you pay attention to the road."

Allison's first instinct is to say yes, of course, but - she thinks maybe they've been flirting a little. So she smiles and says, "I haven't died yet."

Lydia huffs, but it doesn't sound serious. She pulls her Kindle out and starts reading.

An hour later, she says, "Well, that was a waste of four dollars."

"What'd you read?"

Lydia launches into an explanation of the sci-fi book she just read, complete with cutting descriptions of the flaws in the narrative. It sounds like she enjoyed it, probably; she just also enjoys cutting comments. In return, Allison tells her about the lore book she was reading. Most hunters depend on retired hunters' libraries, but Allison depends on piracy. There's an entire undernet of lore books, if you know where to look. The younger hunters are pretty dedicated to digitizing. 

"Really?" Lydia says. "Shapeshifters?"

"Sure," Allison says. "They have to tear their skin off, though. Not recommended."

"Tell me most of them live regular lives. Non-skin-tearing lives."

"Well, we only know about the ones who go rogue."

Lydia shudders. "Gross."

Allison hesitates, then says, "You'll see a lot of gross things. If you stay with me."

"I'm not staying with you forever, and I'm not going on hunts with you."

"You said my dreams are loud."

When she glances over, Lydia's frowning. "That's true, but...I'll learn to block it. That'll be my next lesson."

"Okay," Allison says. "Good."

"Good," Lydia says.

They're silent for almost 100 miles after that, Allison easing up on her considerable speeding when they pass through Spokane. It's not until they're passing a random truck stop at 3 that Lydia says, "So are we just not going to eat?"

"Oh," Allison says. "I kind of - didn't notice I was hungry." She's not going to admit she was too busy worrying that her nightmares would bleed over to Lydia. "There's a McDonald's next exit."

"Good enough," Lydia says, in a tone that makes it obvious she's being a martyr. Allison rolls her eyes and pulls into the right lane.

They don't stop until almost midnight. Lydia fell asleep sometime around ten; Allison waits another hour to start looking for motels. She finds another Super 8 about thirty miles outside Billings.

She expects Lydia to complain, but instead Lydia just shuffles from the car to the motel. She brushes her teeth silently, squinting at the mirror. Allison's stomach does an idiotic flip-flop; she can't help it. Lydia's _cute_ like this, and that's an adjective she can almost never apply to Lydia.

She tells herself to stop being an idiot and goes to brush her teeth. Lydia's asleep by the time she gets back out. She gets into the bed - she got a single again, telling herself it would be wasteful otherwise - and does her best to fall asleep. Luckily, she's had military-esque training in managing her sleep since she was five. It's easy to fall asleep.

Lydia's watching her when she wakes up again, but this time, it's seven-thirty.

"Hi," Lydia says. "Did you sleep enough? You only got about seven hours."

"Augh," Allison says. "Yeah, I slept fine, I don't need that much sleep. We'll eat breakfast on the road, come on, let's go."

"Good morning to you too," Lydia says. "Put your makeup on while I brush my teeth. We'd better be allowed to shower in Indiana before you go all monster-hunt-y."

"We're still two days outside Indiana," Allison says. "I don't tend to drive like a maniac."

"Won't more people die?"

"That's the job," Allison says. "And I don't always wear makeup."

"Relax, I'm not judging." Lydia goes into the bathroom. "It's better than if you did the tomboy, I'm-better-than-other-girls thing."

"I'm glad you approve of my grooming habits," Allison says. She's trying to sound dry, but Lydia just rolls her eyes as she brushes her teeth.

Allison is just now realizing how used to driving alone she is. Lydia doesn't complain that much, if you don't count her almost-automatic cutting comments as complaining; but she does roll her eyes at Allison's music and need a ton of restroom breaks. After their third one in as many hours, Allison says, "Is your bladder the size of a peanut or something?"

"Bladders aren't naturally very large, and holding it in can cause all kinds of health problems," Lydia says. "Besides, I like to stretch my legs."

"Get in the car, princess," Allison says, but she can't manage any heat behind it.

"You must really like sharing a bed," Lydia says that night. They're in Nowhere, Illinois, and she's stopped at another Super 8. "Also, what's with the Super 8s?"

"They're reliable," Allison says. "And a single is way more efficient."

"Uh-huh," Lydia says. "I'll be glad when we can stay in one place. I'll actually be able to practice then."

Allison waits until they've warded the hotel room to say, "So...can you still feel yourself being hunted?"

Lydia's expression gets cagey. "I haven't actually used my skills much in the last two days."

"But?"

"But, yes, I can feel them."

That's really not encouraging. Allison presses her knuckles to her forehead. "I'm going to shower," she says finally. She's warded the room; that's the best she can do.

When she gets out - in pajamas, because she's not a living cliché and she's going to change in the bathroom until she gets Lydia safely back to Beacon Hills - Lydia's Skyping with someone. She doesn't open her eyes to look at Allison; to the computer, she says, "Okay, I'm focusing and everything but I can still feel them? What am I doing wrong? And can you tell me before they break the door down?"

The woman on the other end says, "I've told you. You're too tense. You work too hard. Being a medium isn't about winning awards or finishing first, it's about _working._ "

"I know how to work."

"Then show me. Find your center, and hide yourself."

"I don't hide."

"Honey, right now, you have to. Are you going to do this or not?"

Allison watches, still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, as Lydia huffs and says, "Fine." She scrunches her eyes shut more tightly, obviously focusing on something - inside, Allison guesses. The Argents have worked with psychics for generations; their methods aren't foreign to her. Lydia's a little temperamental and amateurish, but this look-inside-yourself stuff is familiar to Allison.

A subtle shiver runs through the room, and Allison's knees go slightly weak. Lydia opens her eyes and smiles. It's the narrow, confident, sly smile that Allison remembers from school. On adult Lydia, it's -

She turns away and busies herself with her luggage as Lydia says, "There. They won't find me now."

"Tomorrow we'll work on reaching out to other people," the woman says. "I trust your companion will be willing to help with that?"

"That's what I'm here for," Allison says. "That, and killing demons."

"Good," Lydia says. "I'll talk to you then." She closes the computer.

Allison doesn't realize Lydia's watching her until Lydia says, "It's difficult for me too, you know."

"I know it's difficult for you," Allison says. "It'll be more difficult when you're in the hotel room and I'm killing pagan gods."

"Actually, I think staying away from that will be pretty easy." Lydia leans back against the wall, then makes a face and delicately situates herself away from the wall. She's already thrown the comforter on the ground; yesterday she gave Allison a lecture on how dirty motel comforters are. "I have no desire to get all invested in killing everything that goes bump in the night."

Allison double-checks the salt and wards on the room. She needs to contract a witch to make her portable wards; dry erase markers on the windows work well enough, but someday a hotel proprietor is bound to notice.

To Lydia, she says, "The killing thing is really distasteful to you, huh."

"I'm a Fields medal nominee. I've collaborated with Stephen Hawking on quantum mechanics." Lydia shrugs. "What can I say? Being all dirty and stabbing things just isn't in my purview."

"It's not all about that," Allison says.

"Oh?"

"It's about -" Allison doesn't know how to explain it. She's talked with Chinese demon hunters, English con men, and Kenyan psychics. It's not about the killing; it's about the battle, about standing with others to fight the tide of evil. It's about belonging to a community, an old and storied one. The blood and guts are easy to focus on, but the Argents know that they're an accessory, a symptom of their fight. The fight itself has a higher purpose.

"Never mind," she says, and gets into bed.

"You're just going to ignore what i said about comforters, aren't you."

"Fifteen years in motels and I've never been given the clap by a comforter," Allison says. She closes her eyes. "Goodnight, Lydia."

There's a long enough silence that Allison's half asleep before Lydia says, "Goodnight."

They arrive in Indiana midday the next day. The town they stop in, Apple Grove, is small and idyllic. A little too idyllic, really; even the old Victorian, cordoned off with police tape, is painted like it came out of a story book.

Allison explains the case in the motel they're staying at. "I've warded the room, but once we're out, watch what you say. If that family was murdered to appease pagan gods, the trees might have ears."

Lydia pauses in curling her hair to say, "Like - literally?"

Allison rolls her eyes. "No. But the pagan god might be listening through the trees, the earth. The storefronts. So just - be careful."

"How are we going to gather information if we can't talk about it?"

Allison waves her iPhone. "I thought you were a genius."

"And I thought I was going to stay in the hotel room."

Allison had thought so too, but Lydia's been using "we" since they crossed into Indiana. "It's harmless enough for you to gather information with me," she says.

"What's our cover?"

"Why are we asking questions, do you mean?"

"Obviously I'm leaving the final, undoubtedly gory confrontation to you," Lydia says. "But we need a story if we're going to be poking around before then."

Allison normally goes with federal inspector or long-lost, concerned relative, but - there are benefits to traveling with a partner. "We're together."

"Um, yes. Duh."

"No, I mean - " Allison takes a steadying breath and finishes her eyeliner. "You and me, we're a couple. We want to buy the house. The police should be finishing up their investigation, and the house is on the market. That's how I found out about the case."

"Will a town like this like lesbians?"

"We're white and clean-cut," Allison says. "Town with pagan gods are usually a little more permissive on the sexuality thing."

"Whatever," Lydia says. "Okay, how do I look?"

She's wearing skinny jeans and a nice blouse. She looks utterly normal. Allison's own tank top and leather jacket seem a little edgy in comparison, but - well, if they're pretending to be a couple, that will work. "You look good," Allison says, ignoring the lump in her throat. "Let's do this."

Allison contacts the realtor on the way over. As Allison thought, she's eager to meet with them, and is at the house by the time they get there. They get out of the car together, Lydia smoothing her clothes and looking - a little jumpy, honestly. Allison frowns. "You've gotta look more together than that," she says. "Come on, hold my hand."

"Please," Lydia says. "I know how to pretend I'm in a happy relationship." She shakes herself, and suddenly her expression's changed. it's softer, more open. She approaches Allison and kisses her, the barest brush of lips, before taking Allison's hand.

"See?" she says. "Now, let's do this thing."

The realtor does blink when she sees them, but then she says, "I want to reassure you that we're an equal opportunity housing community."

"Thanks," Allison says. "We appreciate that." She lifts Lydia's hand and kisses it. "Don't we - baby?"

"Of course, sugar." Allison's not sure if Lydia's voice is promising retribution later or not. "Can we see the house?"

"Absolutely," the realtor says, and leads them down the walk.

As soon as they step inside, Lydia flinches. "My shoes pinch," she says with an apologetic smile when the realtor blinks at her. "These vaulted ceilings are amazing."

"There's more where that came from," the realtor says. "Cathedral ceilings, and the original antique bannister preserved. This is one of the few Victorian houses in the town that wasn't chopped up into apartments at some time or another."

"Fascinating," Allison says. "The ones we passed are apartments?" She lets herself sound snobbish - all the better to get information from the realtors.

"Ah, no," the realtor says. "They've since been restored, as the town's - found its way back onto its feet."

"Excellent," Allison says. "We'd like to see the kitchen. Lydia here just loves to cook." She smiles at Lydia, as sappily as she can. Lydia waits until the realtor's assented and turned to lead them to the kitchen before wrinkling her nose at Allison.

Allison rolls her eyes and tugs Lydia's hand, leading her towards the kitchen. "Oh, this is lovely," she says, looking around. It's huge and airy, with a rack for pots and pants above the stove, and a massive island with stools in the middle of the space. "Look at that range. Honey."

"It's lovely," Lydia says. "I have to ask, though - not to be indelicate - but we noticed that the price is so low. Is there a reason? Plumbing, electricity?"

"Ah," the realtor says. She doesn't look remotely flustered. She looks suspiciously calm, actually, Allison thinks. "There was an...incident."

She describes the murder, with as few details as possible. Husband shot the wife and kids, then himself. When she's done, she says, "Of course, if that's a problem, I completely understand."

Lydia turns to look at Allison. They trade a look that Allison hopes looks like silent communication - honestly, she has no idea what's going on in Lydia's head. "No," Lydia says finally. "That should be fine. It's such a beautiful house."

The realtor smiles, a tense baring of teeth. "Excellent," she says. "Let me show you the master bedroom."

The rest of the house tour goes fairly quickly. Allison and Lydia hang out in Allison's car until the realtor has driven away. They don't discuss it or anything, but when they get back to the motel room, they says, "She's suspicious," at the same time.

Lydia blinks at Allison and then laughs a little, harshly. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I'd definitely say that."

"You got bad vibes," Allison says.

"I managed to shut most of them out. But my shielding is imperfect." Lydia presses her lips together, like admitting even that imperfection bothers her.

"I'd like to tell you what we're looking for, but honestly, I have no idea." Allison sits down on her bed, pulling her boots off. There's sunshine coming in through the front window, and the motel room almost looks cheerful. The rune shadow on the carpet ruins the effect a little, but Lydia's hair is lit up and -

Allison looks away from her. "The town coming back from a depression, though," she says, wetting her lips. "That's a definite sign that someone dug up some lore on a pagan god."

"So with cases like this, is the town usually in on it?"

"Kind of." Allison scoots back to lean against the headboard. Lydia's eyes stray to the coverlet and she wrinkles her nose. Allison can't help but smile. "Oh, relax. My car's been through much worse."

"Oh God, I didn't need to know that."

"Now you do," Allison says. "Anyway - it's usually a select group, the upper crust. A circle, a council, that kind of thing. Paternalistic crap about how they're doing what's best for everyone. You know the type."

"I was in academia. Believe me, I _do_ know the type."

"Good," Allison says. "Two eyes trying to spot them are better than one."

Her phone buzzes. She checks it, and blinks. It's a text from the realtor, a forwarded invitation to a -

"Bingo party," Allison says. "They want us to play bingo."

"Okay, that's definitely evil." Lydia pulls the comforter off her own bed and sits down. "What time?"

"7:30 tomorrow night."

"You bring your guns and knives or whatever," Lydia says. "I'll bring my keen intellect."

"I can at least give you a knife, if you're not comfortable with a gun. I don't carry that many guns. Mostly my crossbow, when I think I'll need the firepower."

"You can't exactly sneak that into a bingo party."

"I never said I wasn't going to bring a gun." Allison stands up and goes over to her weapons duffel. She has an Italian stiletto knife, which she pulls out and hands to Lydia. "It's easy enough to use."

The knife looks weird in Lydia's hands, especially when she clutches it so tightly her knuckles go white. "This might shock you, but I'm not entirely confident in my military capabilities."

Allison surveys the room. It's not the world's most spacious motel room, but there's a pretty big open spot by the door, so she says, "Come here."

"Um, that wasn't an invitation for you to teach me proper form, or whatever."

"Sure," Allison says, "But I'm going to anyway. Come here."

Lydia sighs and rolls her eyes, an expression that hasn't changed a bit in ten-plus years. But she stands up and goes over to join Allison.

"Unsheath the knife."

"Is that _safe_?"

Allison reaches out and rests a hand on Lydia's arm without thinking about it. Or, okay, without thinking about it much. "Lydia. None of this is safe."

Lydia makes a grumbling noise, but unsheaths the knife, tossing the sheath onto the bed. "Now what."

"Now," Allison says, "I show you some basic form." She stands behind Lydia, guiding her arm. "The point of using a knife is to hurt the other person without letting them take the knife from you. This knife is best for surprise attacks - throat slitting, stabbings. Hopefully we won't have to do any of that today."

"Hopefully," Lydia says, tone dripping sarcasm.

"Plant your feet like this," Allison says, demonstrating a defensive stance. "Yeah, good. See, the point is to make it hard to access your body."

"You're accessing my body just fine," Lydia says.

Allison goes still, and watches as the back of Lydia's neck turns red.

"Sorry," Lydia says. "I'm tired. I'm listening."

"Right." Allison's voice absolutely isn't rusty when she says, "So. Move your arm like this, stab like this."

They go through some basic stances, blocks and thrusts. It's too technical for Allison to get hot and bothered - and also, she's not the kind of weird, middle-aged person who uses phrases like "hot and bothered" - but she does feel a little flustered by the end of it. "Anyway," she says, stepping back. "That's how you avoid getting stabbed. Hopefully."

"Thank you," Lydia says. She sheathes the knife and takes it over to her side of the nightstand. "So, what are we doing tonight?"

"Pardon?"

"The bingo game is tomorrow," Lydia says, with exaggerated patience. "That leaves us tonight to do - what, exactly? Sit in the motel room, eat McDonald's? Or should we solidify our position a bit?"

"Um," Allison says. She's really not used to working with a partner, apparently.

"Exactly," Lydia says. "I saw a Thai place on Main Street on the way here. Let's show them we're serious about becoming the world's most nonthreatening lesbian neighbors."

"You're paying," Allison says. She leans down to put her boots back on.

"Of course," Lydia says. "A nice, romantic walk, and then dinner. I can't wait. Sweetie."

Her smile is poisonous. Allison has to look away.

It's possible - probable, really - that she didn't think this cover through. It's a cool day, but not quite cold, so Allison's comfortable in her leather jacket and jeans as she walks around the park at the center of town, her hand in Lydia's. Lydia's delivering a sunny talk on the history of small town America. Allison's honestly not sure how much of it is true, and how much of it is Lydia just making things up on the fly.

The Thai place downtown is small and intimate. They sit on the floor around a small, round table, and the waiter brings out dumplings for both of them, along with a bottle of red wine. Allison drinks wine at family functions, mostly, dull events full of people talking about duty. She loves her family, but to her, wine means a certain kind of anachronism.

But Lydia smiles at her and says, "Do you want to do the honors?" as she waves to the uncorked bottle. So Allison sighs and picks it up, pouring them both glasses of wine.

"To...working together," Lydia says, lifting the glass.

At least she's committing to the role, Allison thinks. She lifts her glass and they clink theirs together.

Lydia's foot finds Allison's ankle under the table as they drink. Allison almost chokes on her wine.

"Sip it," Lydia says. "Lord, were you raised in a barn?"

"That's taking it a bit far, don't you think?" Allison says, moving her leg away.

But Lydia finds it again and strokes the back of her calf, slowly. "I don't think so at all," she says, smiling.

Allison is an Argent, and she's not going to do something as undignified as choking on her wine. But all the same, she's bright red throughout the dinner, which involves some truly delicious pad see eew and the entire bottle of wine. No one approaches them, but Allison's situational awareness isn't dulled by half a bottle of wine, and she can feel and see people watching them.

She tells herself that's why, when they pay their bill and leave, she pulls Lydia against a fence and kisses her.

"Allison, what -"

"Shh," Allison says, and kisses her again.

"There," she says when she pulls away. She holds her hand out for Lydia to take.

Lydia stares at her for a long moment, gaze hard - and then, like it was never there, her expression melts, and she takes Allison's hand.

"If I have leaves in my hair," she says in a pleasant tone, "I will kill you."

They were good kisses. Allison chooses not to respond.

Lydia meditates for a long time that night, and when Allison wakes up at dawn, Lydia wakes up and meditates some more. Allison calls the realtor after they've eaten breakfast, to let her know they want to move forward on buying the house. Then she sets up the bait: "But - I'd like to have a priest bless it. Just in case."

"A priest?" Anna the realtor says. Her voice sounds strained, and Allison presses her lips together to suppress an unattractively smug smile. They've got her. "I'm not sure where you'd find a priest."

"I saw a church on the drive into town, on 12th Street?"

"Oh, yes, of course, but that's - what I mean to say is -" Anna pauses, then says, "I actually have the number of a priest. Would you like it?"

Allison takes the number down and hangs up. Without looking at her, Lydia says, "What was that all about?"

"The church we saw on the way in is their pagan temple, and I -" Allison smiles - "have the number of the guy who runs it."

"So, what's our game plan?" Lydia says.

"Simple," Allison says. "You meet them at the house. Say I'm feeling ill or something. When the head honcho is out of the church, I go in and investigate. I return, hopefully with a clue about what god we're dealing with. Then we stab things."

Allison doesn't know Lydia very well - not well enough, really, to gauge her moods. But it's obvious, when Allison looks at her, that she's worried.

"It's perfectly safe," Allison says. "You're tough and smart, and they don't suspect anything. You'll be fine."

"I wish I could trust that," Lydia says. "But I'm not really - you know what? Never mind." She smiles up at Allison. "Bingo tonight. Call the priest and tell him to come tomorrow. I need to brush up on my shielding." She turns away from Allison, crossing her legs and - apparently - falling into a trance.

They don't get dressed up for bingo. Allison's been accused of dressing like a dyke before, even though she generally does her hair and makeup - it's just an occupational hazard when you're a hunter who turns down testosterone-soaked hunters who think staking a couple vamps makes them hot shit. And it's not entirely false, anyway. But tonight she wears her leather jacket and jeans, and does her makeup as prom-y as she knows how. Lydia wears slacks and a blazer. It's probably how she dressed at school, when she was busy earning her PhD and making everyone scared of her, but Allison's mouth goes a little dry anyway. She looks so smart, so together. She shouldn't be traveling with Allison in Allison's Toyota, staying in motel rooms and dodging psychic hunters.

Then again, many people have told her she shouldn't be in as bloody a business as hunting. Everyone makes compromises, but especially people from Beacon Hills.

"Ready?" Lydia says, smiling. Her lips are shiny with pink gloss.

"Ready," Allison says.

The bingo game is, well. Uncanny.

Everyone's thin and clean-cut. Everyone's white. All the women have either a bob or long, curly hair. All the men have short blond hair. If Allison didn't already suspect something was going on, the Uncanny Valley display happening would be more than convincing enough.

"Keep your head," she mutters to Lydia as they enter.

"I should be telling you that," Lydia says. She smiles wide and says, "Hi, do you mind if we sit here?" to the nearest table full of elderly women.

Allison's quiet for most of the night, to the point where she's a little worried about seeming sullen. Hopefully she just looks devoted - to Lydia, who's sparkling and charming everyone within earshot. 

"And of course, she wants a garden," Lydia says, laying a hand on Allison's arm. "She's so fond of - plants. Growing them."

Allison can hear the undercut of worry in Lydia's voice. There's someone who's never gardened, Allison thinks in dark amusement. Not that she has, either. But she's picked some things up. "Tomatoes," she says, putting her hand over Lydia's. "I want to grow tomatoes. And basil, of course. Caprese salads in the summer are wonderful, don't you think?"

"You could start the basil now, inside," one of the old women says. "Get it planted out back when spring comes."

"That's what I'm hoping to be able to do," Allison says, smiling as sappily as she can at Lydia.

"I say," the old woman says. "You two ought to come round our church when you've bought the house. You seem like just the type we want."

Allison's not sure if they're going to be inducted or murdered, but it's a promising lead. "We'd love to," she says. "Thank you."

Lydia's tense when they leave. It's not until they get back to the motel room and she says, "Oh my God, we're really doing this," that Allison realizes the tension is excitement.

Allison herself can almost taste the kiss Lydia gave her when they won a round of bingo, in full view of everyone in the cafeteria. "We really are," she says. "I hope you're ready for your part tomorrow."

"You know, I think I might be," Lydia says. "I'm at least fifty percent sure I can knock someone out just by thinking about it, which is a good start, don't you think?"

Allison blinks. "I'm sorry. What?"

"You heard me."

"Heard, maybe. Didn't understand. You can knock someone out by thinking about it?"

The look Lydia gives her is at least vaguely apologetic. "It's not like I can practice. Knocking you out would be a bad idea. But if I have to, then yes. Maybe."

"Let's...try to avoid that," Allison says. She's torn between horror and wanting to throw Lydia down on the bed and - well. It's a good thing they have two beds, is all.

"You're so cautious for a hunter," Lydia says. "I'd expect more, I don't know, banging down doors and yelling."

"There's plenty of that later on," Allison says. "When a job goes badly."

"Ah, yes." Lydia sits down on her bed, kicking her heels off. "Because the Argents are professionals. I used to be jealous of you, you know."

"When we were in middle school?" Allison says, largely unwilling to believe it.

"Of course," Lydia says. "The Argents were so established, and you knew so many people, and you were so mysterious - I was just the queen bitch, dating Jackson and hiding all my good grades." She waves a hand. "Water under the bridge. But I _do_ want all of this to be over, so I can go back to solving the Millennium Problem."

Allison wants to ask her to explain it. She wants - no. She says, "How's the shielding going? Are you still being pursued?"

"Between my shielding and the wards, no. Not right now, anyway." Lydia looks at her. Her gaze is piercing; Allison has to resist the urge not to wiggle. "You're coming back to Beacon Hills with me."

"I am?"

"Absolutely." Lydia draws the word out, giving it its own texture. "When we figure out who's trying to kill me, you can help me deal with them."

"I don't kill humans, Lydia."

Lydia's smile is cold. "Who said anything about killing?"

"Okay," Allison says slowly. "Well - we'll deal with that once we've fixed this town. Okay?"

"Good," Lydia says. "Here, I brought you this. You need to unwind at night. It's creepy when you go from target practice to being asleep in fifteen minutes." She stood, went over to her bag, and pulled out a book.

Allison blinks down at it. "Alpha And Omega: The Search For The Beginning And The End Of The Universe? Lydia, I don't know if this somehow escaped you, but I'm not a physicist."

"It's pop science," Lydia says, in the tone someone else might say "mouse droppings". "I thought you'd like it." She looks at Allison with a calm, somewhat scary expression, like she's daring Allison to turn it down.

"Um, thanks," Allison says. She kicks her boots off and leans against the bed, opening the book. It's brand new, and hardcover, and creaks a little when she turns it to the first page. It'll probably be boring, but she can skim it. She's not uneducated.

She's up for almost an hour reading the book, which is a little ridiculous with all its talk of stardust and expanding universes. Her head is spinning when she finally falls asleep, and for once, Lydia wakes up before her.

Allison knows she does, because she wakes up to Lydia sing-songing, "Wake up, Allison. Wake up, Allison. _Wake up, Allison_."

"'m wake," Allison says. "What time is it?"

"Almost 8:30. Horribly late. How do you handle hunts alone?"

"I go to bed earlier," Allison says. "Or I stay up all night and sleep during the day. Whatever works." She yawns and stretches, cracking her back. When she looks over at Lydia, Lydia's staring at the far wall. "When are you meeting the priest?"

"You're the one who set up the appointment." Lydia rolls her eyes when Allison just looks at her. "After lunch, at one."

"Should we eat lunch out?"

"Probably," Lydia says. "This town is full of Stepfords. They'll notice."

"I don't think they worshipped a pagan god in Stepford." Allison gets out of bed and stretches. "Ugh. Okay. Continental breakfast okay?"

"I have no idea how you live," Lydia says. "But yes."

"Great," Allison says. "Back in a few." She grabs her robe and the room key and leaves.

Lydia keeps shifting the foot with the knife in her boot as Allison drives them to the church. "It'll be fine," Allison says. "I promise."

"I know," Lydia says. "You're a professional. I'm aware."

"That's right," Allison says. "I'm a professional, and I'm going to solve this."

"Good," Lydia says. She says it a little sharply, but Allison lets it go; it's obvious enough to her that Lydia's afraid. 

"Okay," Allison says. She parks the car, and they both get out. "Be seeing you," she says as Lydia gets into the driver's seat.

"Yep," Lydia says, and peels out of the church parking lot.

Allison takes a deep breath and goes up to the front door. No sense trying to find a side entrance; all the fun pagan god worshippers will be off trying to secure their new church members.

Or possibly their next sacrifice. 

She's expecting an aggressively dull church interior with a false wall somewhere. Not so. She walks in and is immediately assaulted by a smell of rot. The interior of the church isn't the inside of the building so much as it's a miniature forest - with three bodies hanging from the trees.

She looks at them. White women, all three of the missing persons that drew her to this case to begin with. "What kind of god hangs people?" she murmurs, edging closer to the far end of the church.

A voice sounds behind her, dry as sand. "You'll never find out," it snarls.

A finger, its nail so long it's almost curling, touches her temple. Before she has a chance to strike, she passes out.

She wakes up tied up. It's not exactly a balm to her dignity. They're still in the main room of the church, and she's tied to one of the many trees. The church doesn't even have a roof - what looks like a sloping roof from the outside is just two sloping eaves that end with enough space for sunshine to get through.

Then again, these trees probably don't need a lot of sun; they're not natural. They're god-grown.

"Okay," she says, feeling behind her. They've tied her arms thoroughly; she can feel the knife in her boot, but she has no way of reaching it. "Show yourself. What kind of god are you?"

"The Lady of the Earth does not grace us with her presence," the voice says. It moves into her line of vision; it is a he, a man with a hood up that doesn't hide the dry, flaky skin on his face and hands. "But we feel her blessings all the same."

"Yeah, at the price of three tourists every - what is it, two months?"

"We are happy," he says. He sighs, a sound that rattles in his chest. "You could have been happy too, Hunter."

"That's not a title I prefer," Allison says. "Argent is good enough for me."

The man hisses. "Argent. Silver - moonlight is your power, then."

"No power," Allison says. "I'm just human. And pissed off, currently."

"The Lady will take that away. She'll take all of that away."

"Like hell she will," Allison says, but she's not actually sure how she'll get out of this. If the Lady isn't corporeal, Allison has no idea how she's going to stop the worship. Kill this guy, and the town will just replace him with another. Surely someone else has encountered this problem and come up with a binding, or another spell - but Allison's not really in the position to be consulting her books.

"She will," the man says. "She is mighty."

"Yeah, okay," Allison says. "Then why don't you just kill me?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Lydia says from the doorway.

The man whirls around. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lydia." Lydia smiles. "And you're going to regret your actions."

Allison watches silently as Lydia walks into the room. She glances up at the bodies, but doesn't betray anything but mild distaste. Allison gasps when she notices the people filing in behind her - half the bingo crowd, it seems like.

"It's so funny, who you can round up when you're even a little bit good at compulsion. Does worshipping some pagan god make people mentally weak or something? _Not_ an invitation to talk," she says when the man opens his mouth. "Now."

The air changes. It becomes still, almost stifling. Everyone but Allison and Lydia stiffens, and when Lydia speaks, her voice holds a terrible kind of resolve.

"You will cease worshipping this goddess," she says. "You will go back to your normal lives. Never again will you kill to service yourselves. Never again will you kidnap women. This church will burn, and you will leave this goddess behind you."

"We will," everyone says in chorus.

"Good," Lydia says, sounding much more like herself. "Allison, come on. Let's go." She walks through the miniature forest and pulls out her knife. It flashes in the sunlight. "Here," she says, and kneels, cutting Allison free.

The worshippers are kindling a fire in the center of the church. "Will they go through with it?" Allison says.

"Yes," Lydia says. There's a shadow of whatever was in her voice earlier, and it makes Allison shiver. "I brought the car," Lydia says. "Let's go."

Allison feels fine by the time they get back to the motel. That's the first time she's had to be rescued from being tied up, but, well - things happen, and she's almost died before. So when they get the motel door locked behind them, salt circle intact, Allison turns to Lydia and says, "Thanks."

Lydia looks at her, anger obvious. "You idiot," she says, and then she's kissing Allison.

Allison shoves her away. "What - what was that?"

"What you want," Lydia says. "What we both want. Don't be obtuse."

"I…" Allison shakes her head. "Lydia, I -"

Lydia kisses her again. This time, Allison doesn't push her away.

They go to Allison's bed and Lydia shoves Allison down, smirking up at her before tossing her hair to the side and moving down to kiss Allison again. Allison's not the type to be pushed around, normally, but this feels good, Lydia pinning her and kissing her like she's never wanted to do anything else.

"You're so careless and _so_ lucky," Lydia says. "You - " She shakes her head and kisses Allison again, sliding a cold hand up Allison's stomach.

Allison has time to shiver and arch her back, and then Lydia's hand closes over Allison's breast, pushing her bra aside. "Take your shirt off," Lydia says. She sits back, straddling Allison's hips as she follows her own advice.

Allison's own bra is from Target, not like the lacy Victoria's Secret-esque bra Lydia's wearing. But then Lydia takes her bra off and it doesn't matter, because her tits are right there and they're so fucking gorgeous that Allison sits up to kiss them.

"Not that this display of ab strength isn't great, but it's my turn right now." Lydia pushes Allison back down, tossing Allison's bra to the side and licking her nipple, hot and hard. With her other hand, she plays with Allison's free breast, rolling her nipple between her fingers and squeezing gently.

Allison gasps. She can't help it - this is Lydia, and she's wanted this so much, and Lydia's pressing her thigh against Allison's cunt and saying, "I'm going to go down on you," like she's been thinking about it too.

"Um," Allison says. She winces at her own inarticulateness, but Lydia laughs, then tugs Allison's pants and underwear down, throwing them decisively to the floor and then pushing Allison's legs apart.

"Much better," Lydia says. "I'll ogle you later." She settles between Allison's legs, looking up at Allison smugly as she traces a finger over the folds of Allison's cunt.

"Already wet," she says, and - God, of course Lydia's into dirty talk.

"Danger gets me going," Allison says.

"I get you going," Lydia says. "What, did you think I didn't notice?" She laughs a little, then bites Allison's thigh, sliding a finger inside her.

It's not enough, none of this is enough, and Allison can't hide the way she's shaking a little. When Lydia finally licks her, fucking her shallowly and circling Allison's clit with her tongue, Allison feels so close to coming that she's dizzy with it.

But Lydia draws it out, licking and sucking, pressing a second finger inside Allison and curling them, letting Allison fuck her face. It's so methodical, so neat in spite of the inherent messiness, and the reality that it's _Lydia_ is what finally pushes Allison over the edge, crying out and shaking, tightening around Lydia's fingers.

When she opens her eyes and looks down, Lydia's sitting up, licking her fingers. She holds eye contact with Allison as she trails her fingers down her own body, over her breasts and then down to her cunt.

"Come here," Allison says. "Just - here." She grabs them and rolls them - probably unnecessarily efficiently, but it gets Lydia under her, with her bright red hair spread out on the pillows, a smug smile on her face.

Allison kisses her and reaches between them, pressing her palm against Lydia's cunt. That makes Lydia gasp and thrust her hips, and then Allison slides a finger into her and thumbs her clit, rocking her hand until Lydia's hips stutter and she comes, moaning.

It was quick - so quick Allison's a little turned on just from that, knowing how into eating her out Lydia was. And maybe this is a bad idea, maybe she should cut her losses and acknowledge this was just an adrenaline fuck, but she can't keep from kissing Lydia, long and slow, curling herself around Lydia, tucking her hand between Lydia's back and the bed.

"Oh, I have some bad news," Lydia says, in between trading lazy kisses.

"Mmm?"

"Yeah. That display of power? They felt it. The people who are hunting me. We're gonna have to leave."

Never let it be said that Allison puts sex over her job. Half an hour later, they're on the road. They don't discuss it much; it's obvious that they need to go back to Beacon Hills. Allison likes her independence, she likes things being simple, but the protection of an entire werewolf pack is nothing to sneeze at. 

They don't talk about how they slept together. Allison half expects things to be weird; she's never slept with a friend before, and if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't usually stick around long enough for things to get weird with people she does sleep with. But all of her worries end up not mattering. That night, Lydia goes to her own bed like normal, throwing the comforter on the floor and sleeping with her back to Allison. Two days later, they're back in Beacon Hills, knocking on Scott's door.

"Lydia, hey," Scott says. "Oh! Allison!"

"Hey," Allison says. "So, this is embarrassing."

He frowns. "What's embarrassing? Did something happen?" He looks between them and sniffs a little. "Ohhhh."

"Oh my god, I've showered three times," Lydia says. "What even - never mind. It's not that. A cult is trying to kill me. We need your pack's help."

"Sure," Scott says. Allison honestly can't tell if he's not bothered, or if he's just hiding it really well. "Come on in, and you guys can explain."

Stiles is lounging on the couch, and Boyd's knitting in the armchair. Boyd raises a hand to greet them, but Stiles just says, "So is a cult trying to kill Lydia, or what?"

When they all look at him, he says, "Just a lucky guess. But I'm right, aren't I. I've been reading up on it since you guys left."

"Do you ever think about your flair for the dramatic?" Boyd says. "And how it's annoying?"

"Nah," Stiles says. He grins up at Scott; Scott, predictably, is beaming at him.

"You knit now?" Allison says to Boyd.

"We only have fur part of the time, and it can get chilly in the foothills," Boyd says. "Plus, it's soothing." He holds up the sweater. It's full of complicated cable twists, and judging by the cut, is for Erica. 

"It's nice," Allison says.

"Okay, this is a very touching scene, but can we focus on how Stiles was right and someone is, in fact, trying to kill me?" Lydia says. She sits on the couch next to Stiles; Allison quickly shoots down a totally irrational bolt of jealousy. "Did you narrow it down?"

"To six Puritan-inspired cults, a couple Catholic ones, some agnostic New Age crazies, and the Illuminati, sure," Stiles says. "Why is it always the Illuminati?"

"It's probably not the Illuminati," Scott says. "But we were worried."

"Next time," Allison says, trying to sound friendly and casual, "you should tell me."

By the looks Stiles, Scott, and Boyd exchange, her attempt isn't very successful.

"We will," Scott says. "But for now, how about Stiles and Lydia research?"

"Good," Allison says. "Bring me something to punch. Lydia, can you get a ride back to your place?"

"No need," Scott says. "I'm not a researcher. How about we go make dinner? I'm roasting some squash."

The incongruence of it makes Allison laugh. "Sure," she says. "Just tell me what to do. I'm not much of a cook."

Apparently, the pack trades off cooking duties. "Sometimes Derek tells me I shouldn't be doing it, since I'm the alpha," Scott says. "But Derek's got some weird ideas about these things."

That's a bit of an understatement, Allison thinks. She says, "Where's the sausage? I think I can handle browning it."

An hour later, the pack hangs out in the living room, eating stuffed squash. "So," Stiles says, "There's this spell."

Allison is going to survey hunters and find out if that statement has ever gone anywhere good. "Oh?"

"It should let us track Lydia's charming stalkers," Stiles says. "Or, it might bring them down on our heads."

"That's fine by me," Allison says. Her hand goes to her knife at her waist.

"Calm down, Xena," Stiles says. "Our ultimate goal is bringing the cult here, yes. But in a controlled way."

"Or, ideally, I just compel them to stop looking for me," Lydia says. "No muss, no fuss, so to speak."

Personally, Allison thinks that's dreaming. Those kinds of cults don't go down easy. But she stays silent when Scott says, "That sounds good. When can we do it?"

"There are a couple ingredients, let's call them esoteric," Scott says. "Alpaca wool, for starters."

Allison once again stays silent.

"Probably two days," Stiles says. "Maybe three."

"We're being optimistic, though," Lydia says.

There's no reason to feel jealous, Allison tells herself. That's insane. She accidentally meets Erica's gaze, and realizes Erica's smirking at her. Werewolves and their damn sense of smell. Werewolves and their - everything.

"Great," Allison says. "I can probably work on a case on the west coast for a couple days."

"Actually, we were hoping you'd stay here," Stiles says. "First line of defense and all."

"I'm a hunter," Allison says.

"Just for a few days," Scott says. "Please?"

He looks so hopeful that Allison can feel herself melting. "Okay," she says. "But only for a few days."

"Of course," Scott says. "If you're looking for something to do, the twins have a martial arts studio downtown. I'm sure they could use some help."

"My style's a little mixed."

"So's ours," one of the twins says.

Allison should really learn their names.

"Okay, I'll stay," she says. "You'll probably need me, anyway, when you bring a crazy cult to town."

"Your faith in me is charming," Lydia says.

There's enough acid in there that for a second Allison pauses. What problem can she have with - no, she's not going to think about that. Not their hookup, not her jealousy, not her need to be away from Beacon Hills. She's not thinking about _any_ of that. 

"Cool," Allison says. "Whose dishes night is it? I'll help."

As it turns out, it's Erica's. Allison can't really walk back her offer, so instead she steels herself for irritation and follows Erica back into the kitchen.

Erica doesn't talk as she loads the dishwasher. Allison doesn't have much to do until Erica starts washing the bigger pans, at which point she hands them to Allison to dry. "Lydia's been lonely," Erica says finally, voice pitched low.

"I'm sorry?"

"She comes back occasionally," Erica says. "We're not friends. But she was part of all of this, once upon a time."

"Okay," Allison says slowly.

"The Argents have always been pretty high and mighty."

Allison doesn't answer. It's not like Erica's wrong.

"Don't break Lydia's heart because you're stubborn."

At that, Allison snorts. She rubs the broiler pan a little harder, trying to get it dry. "As though I'm capable of breaking Lydia's heart."

"You'd be surprised." Erica sprays down the sink, then quirks her eyebrows, looking at the pan in Allison's hands. "I think that's probably done."

Allison curses herself and says, "Where does it go?"

"Bottom drawer, on the left."

Everyone probably heard that conversation, Allison realizes when she gets back out to the living room. It's a great reason for her to say, "I'm going to spend the night in the Argent house. I'll go down to the twins' studio in the morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott says. "I'll let you know when we're ready to do the ritual." His eyes seem bigger than usual; he's obviously concerned. "Take care of yourself."

Allison smiles narrowly. "I always do," she says, and leaves.

She doesn't look at Lydia at all.

 

Allison doesn't think much about Erica's advice as she gets ready for bed that night. She has a lot of really good reasons for that, chief among them that Erica's completely wrong about Lydia. There's no way Lydia's heart is in danger of being broken, or even bruised. Lydia's not like that. She's not frigid, or anything, but she doesn't form attachments easily. They slept together, sure, but that was just some weird fluke. Adrenaline. It didn't mean anything.

All the same, Allison tosses and turns a lot before she finally manages to get to sleep. She's not at all confident that their clever plan for dealing with the cult will work out. She's worried she'll have to kill people. She has before, of course - Ben Green when she was 22 and Charles Jameson when she was 25. Both of them were necessary, serial killers who she'd thought were supernatural beings until the last, terrible second. Most of the time, she doesn't feel guilt.

But she can't kill an entire cult. There has to be another solution, one that doesn't involve Lydia forever staying in Beacon Hills, protected by Scott's pack. That's actually a fairly reasonable solution, as far as these things go, but Allison tries to think of Lydia adhering to it and can only snort at the improbability.

She finally manages to get to sleep just before midnight. She wakes up at five AM, grouchy and exhausted; when she checks her phone, she groans, rolls over, and goes back to sleep. She wakes up again at eight, stumbles into the shower, and then walks into downtown.

Rise And Shine is a nice, relatively upscale diner near where Scott said the twins' studio is. She gets eggs and bacon there, propping her head up on her hands until they bring her coffee. She's almost done with her meal when Lydia sits down across from her.

"Hi," she says, smiling brittlely.

"How'd you find me?" Allison says. It's not really a question, whether or not this is a coincidence.

"Call it luck," Lydia says. "It's better for both our peace of mind."

"Uh huh," Allison says. That means Lydia psychically sniffed her out. Really not the kind of thing Allison wants to think about right now. "Getting ready for the ritual?"

"All I have to do is practice the mental stuff," Lydia says. "Which is a pain, by the way."

"Okay." Allison pushes the last little bit of egg around on her plate.

"I'm going with you to the twins' studio," Lydia says. She says it with the kind of sarcastic levity that tells Allison that Lydia thinks she's an idiot for not understanding where she was going with the conversation.

"Okay?" Allison says again.

"It's ridiculous that I don't know how to defend myself." Lydia levels a stare at Allison. "Don't you agree?"

"Sure," Allison says. "Have you eaten?"

"Of course."

"We'll leave in a minute, then."

Allison's fully awake, but not in the mood to talk. For once, Lydia seems to pick up on that; she's quiet as they walk down to the studio. 

There's a morning class, and one of the twins - Ethan, Allison thinks - waves them into a practice room. "You can teach her, right?"

Allison forces a smile. "Of course."

"Great," he says, and leaves them.

"I'm wearing yoga pants," Lydia says. "That's how much I want to learn. Do you know the last time I lowered myself to wearing yoga pants in public?"

"Never?" Allison says.

"Precisely." Lydia ties her hair back, then stares at Allison. "Okay. How exactly do I defend myself?"

"It depends on the attack," Allison says. "It's probably a safe bet that these cultists are burly guys, though."

What follows is more than an hour of teaching Lydia to be a little less - _helpless_ doesn't seem like the right word, since she can mind-whammy people, but she's definitely less skilled in the physical side of self-defense. Allison never learned a particular style of martial arts; she always had instructors who taught her mixed styles, and by the time she was sixteen, her dominant style was 'whatever works'. That hasn't really changed. She teaches Lydia as best as she can, and tries to ignore how hot the determined gleam in Lydia's eyes is, or how their breathing catches when Allison pins Lydia, her face inches from Lydia's own.

Aiden comes in when they're finishing up. "Sorry, morning classes are always packed," he says. "Allison, do you want to guest instruct?"

"And what am I supposed to do?" Lydia says.

"Dunno," Aiden says. "I guess you could attend classes?"

"All day physical exertion doesn't appeal to me. Do you have a back room I can practice in? The things I'm actually good at."

"Hey, you weren't bad here," Allison says.

"Touching. Back room?"

"Um," Aiden says. He glances between them. "Sure. This way."

Lydia sweeps past Allison with her nose in the air. For one horrifying second, Allison feels fond. Then she realizes what she's doing and shoves it down as quickly as possible.

She spends the rest of the day leading classes and doing her best to not think about Lydia, or the ritual, or any of the other major stressors in her life. It mostly works, until Scott shows up around six and says, "Are you coming out for dinner?"

"I'm still not part of your pack," Allison says. She knows how werewolves operate.

"Sure," Scott says. "But I know you don't like cooking in that big old Argent house."

She'd lie, but he's right - and on top of that, he'd be able to tell if she was lying. So instead she says, "Right, okay. What's for dinner?"

"Whatever Boyd and Isaac decide on."

That's honestly a little scary, but Allison just says, "Give me ten to grab my stuff."

Scott apparently ran here - the good people of Beacon Hills don't tend to report large animal sightings anymore, even of the humanoid, supernatural variety. Allison convinces him to let her drive them back to the pack's house. Scott goes along with it easily enough.

They're off the main roads and starting the 15-minute drive down a narrow, badly paved lane when Scott says, "You know we all heard Erica talking to you."

"I don't know what everyone's obsession with this is." Allison keeps her voice light, her heart rate steady. "Lydia and I slept together, yes. You know that. It was an adrenaline thing - I almost died. I don't go for the lesbian drama."

"I didn't say I thought you were a lesbian."

"I am, for the record," Allison says. "But that's not the point. The point is, I'm not going to drop my hunting just because Lydia bats her eyelashes at me."

"In middle school -"

"It was a kid's crush, Scott." Allison glances over at Scott briefly, then fixes her eyes back on the road. "You and I, we get each other. We both have responsibilities. I'm not going to let a thing with Lydia derail that."

"The difference is, I don't let my responsibilities get in the way of me being happy," Scott says. "Not anymore."

Allison knows perfectly well what the implication behind that is. She knows Scott spent years being tortured about his destiny, and denying that he and Stiles were anything. She knows through the grapevine, just like she knows that Scott did some soul-searching and figured his mess out. But Scott's not Allison. Allison's human, and an Argent, and both of those things mean that she can't just abandon her responsibilities to shack up with a psychic.

"The answer's no," she says. "I'd appreciate not talking about this again."

She doesn't put any threat in her voice. She doesn't need to; this is Scott. He nods and says, "Okay." Just like that, Allison knows no one else will bug her about it.

Of course, that doesn't mean things will be normal between her and Lydia. Smoothing that over is Allison's job.

"Things went better today than expected," Stiles says. "Having an occult store in Beacon Hills really helps."

"Newcomers," Boyd says. "So they don't realize the actual occult is just down the street. But they carry most of what we need."

"Yep," Stiles says. "We need some artichokes, but aside from that, we're ready to do the ritual."

"Artichokes?" Allison says.

"They symbolize peace," Stiles says.

"And the grocery store was out." Lydia rolls her eyes. "But they should have them in tomorrow."

"Wow. Good job, guys."

"Desperate times call for hasty and death-defying measures," Stiles says. "Lydia's got full shields up, but they're getting closer."

"And what will this ritual do, exactly?" Allison would like to be ready before they actually do it. 

"Draw them out," Lydia says. "Right now, the connection - it's just a thread, them finding me when I use my power. This will open up a floodgate, so to speak. It'll let me see inside their minds."

Allison knows she shouldn't say it. Unfortunately, she also knows that no one else is _going_ to say it. "So what you're saying is, you could kill them right there."

"If we were in the habit of killing people, sure," Lydia says. "But I don't think that's what the Argents would want, do you?"

Allison's silent, trying to figure out if that's a threat. Erica jumps in, saying, "If we know who they are, we'll know how to neutralize them. Not kill them. Just get them off Lydia's back."

"I'm still hoping I can compel them," Lydia says. "But if not, well. We'll find another way."

Responses crop up in Allison's mind, things like: what if there is no other way? But instead of voicing them, she says, "Cool. I'm starving. What's for dinner?"

Dinner turns out to be enchiladas. Growing up in California - or, well, spending the first twelve years of her life mostly in California - has given Allison a taste for Mexican food that she just can't satisfy in a lot of the Middle American locales she ends up hunting in. These enchiladas are perfect, warm and gooey with just the right amount of spice. She ends up focusing on them, closing her eyes in enjoyment, because that way she doesn't have to think about how desperate this plan seems, and how much she wishes they had one that wasn't cobbled together and reliant on luck.

She's ready to split after dinner - it's Stiles and Ethan's night for dishes, apparently - but Scott stops her with a look and says, "Hang out for awhile. We have a lot of books on lore. Some of them probably aren't in your family's library."

"You'd be surprised," Allison says, but she takes the Kindle Stiles hands her on his way to the kitchen.

The open title is, _A Compendium of Psychic Knowledge Being Collected From Eight Subjects_. It's old, dense reading, but Allison's used to that. Most of this is stuff Allison already knows from her family's dealings with psychics - but the third chapter is on compulsion, and that's where things get weird. 

Lydia's ability, as it turns out, is unusual. Not her ability to do compulsion in and of itself, but her ability to do it on multiple people at once, and make it stick. The former indicates she has a magnitude of power beyond what 99% of psychics will ever develop; and the latter, according to this book, can't be done. 

She's almost done with the chapter when Stiles comes back out of the kitchen. "Hey, Stiles," she says. "Do you have a minute?"

"Sure," he says. 

She doesn't bother to pitch her voice low. "Were you aware Lydia's compulsion trick, the one she did in Indiana - did you know it's supposed to be impossible?"

Stiles stares at her for long enough that Allison can tell he's trying to decide if he should lie to her or not. Finally, he says, "I suspected. I didn't know for sure."

"Interesting," she says. "Do you think that's why they're hunting her?"

He shrugs. "I'd rather not speculate. If it is, hopefully they're not immune to her; that's the ace up our sleeve right now. And we'll find out who they are soon enough."

There wasn't anything in what he said to argue with, really. It was their ace, and they would find out, but Allison - Allison was gripped with the need to _solve_ this. "I know," she says. "But -"

"Hang on," Stiles says. "I need to take the trash out. Come with me?"

The look on his face doesn't leave her with much room to argue. She nods wordlessly and gets up, taking one of the two trash bags he picks up, and following him out the back.

"The others can still hear," Stiles says. "And Lydia could, but I don't think it would occur to her to try. Which is good, because you need to talk to her about this whole in love with her thing you have going on."

"I'm not - I don't - that's ridiculous."

Stiles tosses his bag in the trash can and says, "Is it?"

"I barely know her."

"You knew her. You've traveled with her, and you're ready to stab me full of arrows because I can't pull out a miracle that'll make people stop hunting her."

"Shoot you full of arrows," Allison says, then scowls. "And that's not true."

"It's none of my business, okay, I know that," Stiles says. "But you should at least think about it, so it's not clouding your judgment when we do the ritual tomorrow. Rituals like clouded judgment. It makes things complicated."

"That's ridiculous," Allison says. "I don't...she'd never…"

"Maybe she wouldn't," Stiles says. "But that doesn't mean you don't want it." He takes the bag from Allison and throws it on top of the other one. "Hang out here if you need to," he says. "I'll say you went for a walk, or something."

"I don't need to," Allison says. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are."

"I _am._ And I'm going home."

She walks past Stiles, grabs her coat, throws everyone a wave, and leaves. It's probably a little abrupt, but who cares? Stiles is the one who was throwing accusations around like it doesn't mean anything. In love with Lydia - hardly. It occurs to her that she should've told Stiles that his relationship doesn't mean everyone else needs to be in a relationship, too.

She's not in love with Lydia. Lydia's always been the perfect, unattainable girl. That doesn't lend itself to a relationship. And what kind of a relationship would it be, anyway? Lydia hated the motels. She's not cut out for Allison's life, and Allison's not going to give it up to live in the drafty old Argent house while Lydia solves some obscure theorem. It would never work, and Allison doesn't want it to, because she's not in love with Lydia.

She's _not_.

She goes to bed as soon as she gets home, and falls asleep almost immediately. When banging on her door wakes her up, she's disoriented enough to forget where she is until she sits up and sees the heavy wall clock opposite her bed.

"Shit," she says, and runs for the door, grabbing her crossbow on the way.

"What's wrong?" she says when she opens it, lifting her crossbow.

She's expecting Scott in his pajamas, wolfed out, or something. Instead it's Lydia, in her pajamas. She gives the crossbow a disdainful look. "Let me in."

Allison perversely wants to tell her no. But it's Lydia, so Allison lowers the crossbow and ushers her in. 

"What's wrong?" she says again when the door's safely locked.

"I can't sleep," Lydia says.

"And?"

"It's your fault." Lydia frowns at her. "Did Stiles really think it wouldn't occur to me to eavesdrop? I mean, honestly."

Shit. "Lydia, it's nothing. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Clearly," Lydia says. She tucks her hands in front of her, folded neatly. "Because he's wrong, you're not in love with me, there's no reason for you to be. You're not, and he's being ridiculous."

"Right."

"Right," Lydia says, and then she leans forward and grabs Allison, kissing her desperately.

Allison kisses back without thinking, grabbing fistfuls of Lydia's hair and pushing her back against the wall. Lydia's hands are on her hips, pushing her sleep shirt up. And, fuck, Allison's only in a shirt and underwear, and Lydia's already cupping her breasts, pinching just the right side of too roughly.

"Bed," Allison says. "I - bed."

"Don't talk," Lydia says. "I don't want to hear it, I just want -"

"I know," Allison says, and practically drags Lydia to her room.

Lydia's wet when Allison pulls her underwear down, and she cries out when Allison goes down on her. It's messy, too fast, Allison fucking her with two fingers and licking her clit, then pulling back to use her hands so she can watch Lydia come. Lydia moans and claws at the bed, then pulls Allison up for a vicious kiss, insinuating a hand between them to get Allison off. Allison comes with a terrible kind of finality, still half-sleepy, head spinning - and when she does, she pushes Lydia's hand away and makes Lydia come again, watching as Lydia falls back against the bed, eyes closed.

When Lydia opens her eyes, her expression's wary. "I should go," she says, pulling away.

"Lydia," Allison says. She feels helpless, stupid - she doesn't know how to express what she's thinking, how she's never had a real relationship, and how starting one with Lydia just wouldn't work.

"I know," Lydia says. "I'll see you later, okay?"

She's gone before Allison finds her voice. "God damn it," she says, and huddles into her blankets, trying to go back to sleep.

They do the ritual early the next day. It involves a lot of smoke, chanting, and other uninteresting things. Allison's attention drifts quickly. It's not until Erica goes stiff and speaks with a voice that isn't hers that she gets alert, hand tightening on her knife.

"So," not-Erica says, voice deep and smug. "You've found us."

"We have," Scott says. "Only, we're not sure who you are. Want to help us out?"

Not-Erica laughs. "Not particularly."

"That's too bad," Scott says. "Because we have a very powerful psychic, a hunter, and a werewolf pack. So we're gonna make you."

Before not-Erica can respond, Lydia says, "Okay, can we dispense with the theatrics? It's like this. I'm not going to let you kill me. You don't own me, you don't get to dictate how I use my power."

"We are guardians," not-Erica says. "We keep psychics from enslaving true humans."

"Right," Lydia says. "Well, you suck at it. I don't want to enslave anyone."

"And you'll never get the chance to try," not-Erica says.

An arrow shatters the window behind Allison and pierces her shoulder. She cries out involuntarily, falling to her knees.

Not-Erica smiles ghoulishly. "Surprise," she says, and Erica's eyes widen before rolling back up in her head. She tumbles to the ground, Boyd diving to catch her.

"Allison," Lydia says. 

"I'm fine," Allison says. It's a clean piercing; it'll heal. "Go somewhere safe."

Lydia tosses her head. "I'm going to make them stop," she says, and yells, "I can feel you! You two in the yard, you four in the woods. Is that all you thought it would take?"

Allison gets the feeling she's amplifying her voice somehow. At least, she hopes Lydia is. Right now, Allison's a little busy with her blurring vision and shaking hands. The arrow was poisoned; that, or her pain tolerance has seriously gone down.

"I don't want a fight," Lydia says, "And I tend to get what I want. So this is what you're going to do." She shifts her stance, and when she speaks again, her words are weighted with the same terrible consequence Allison remembers from Indiana. "Leave me alone. Never come back here again. Never hunt another psychic. If you do, you'll put your blades to your own throats, and end it."

There's a long silence. "Did it work?" Allison says through gritted teeth.

"They're retreating," Aiden says. "Damn. I kind of wanted a fight."

"I definitely did," Erica says viciously.

"Oh, good," Allison says, and passes out.

She wakes up to angry whispers.

"I don't care how good your sense of _smell_ is, Scott. If she doesn't wake up soon I swear to God, I will skin your entire pack and -"

"She'll be fine! Stiles mixed up an antidote, she just needs time to heal. You pacing and staring at her probably isn't helping."

"I'm a psychic, not magic. How does me staring at her matter?"

"Time is it?" Allison manages to say around a fuzzy tongue.

"Awesome, you're awake," Scott says. "It's six. You've slept most of the day."

"You," Lydia says. "You got shot! What were you thinking? Aren't you supposed to be tactical? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, _not_ standing with your back to giant windows?"

"We weren't expecting them to be in Beacon Hills," Allison says. Or tries to, anyway. It comes out more garbled than that.

She opens her eyes. Lydia's standing beside her bed, eyes wild. Scott's leaning in the doorway, looking considerably more collected.

"I'm just going to leave you two to it," he says, and leaves.

"You're an idiot," Lydia says. "And why exactly do you think we wouldn't work out?"

"Huh?"

"I can hear you," Lydia says. "After we sleep together. Idiot."

She's really hammering that point home. "We can't all solve Millennium problems. Which is what you want. Not traveling around." Allison waves a hand. "Killing things."

"Admittedly, your choice in motels is disgusting," Lydia says. "There was a perfectly nice bed and breakfast in that town. But there's, oh, I don't know, compromise? We could at least try. But no, you need to deny you even care."

"We wouldn't work out," Allison says. She has to cling to that, because -

She really wants it to not be true.

"We can try," Lydia says. "We're going to try. You don't get a choice. I'll follow you if I have to."

"Hey."

"I will," Lydia says. "So think about that. And sleep. You need sleep." She twitches the covers around Allison's shoulders, tucking her in awkwardly. "Go back to sleep."

"I do like you," Allison says, but she's already drifting off.

She wakes up with sunlight streaming through the windows, feeling gross in pretty much every way imaginable. Her mouth feels gross, her scalp feels greasy, and she's way too hot, because…

She blinks and cranes her neck, wondering if she's having an oddly specific fever dream. Lydia is sleeping on top of the covers next to her, and she's somehow managed to curl around the lump of blankets that is Allison. Her fingers are clutching the sheets just under Allison's chin.

"Good morning," Allison says.

Lydia jumps, then rolls away. "Good morning," she says. "You look disgusting."

"Thanks," Allison says. "You don't."

"I always look great in the morning," Lydia says. 

"I normally look better." Allison knows it's dumb to feel defensive over this, but she can't help it. "I had a long day."

Lydia sniffs. "Well, there's stuff in the bathroom for you if you want it. I got it from your house."

"Thanks," Allison says. She's made it halfway to the bathroom when she remembers their conversation from last night. "Lydia -"

"Let's not," Lydia says. "I get it, you don't want me to travel with you. It's a terrible way to start dating someone, anyway."

That's exactly how Allison feels, so Allison's not sure why her stomach drops. "Right," she says, and escapes to the bathroom.

After she showers and goes through the motions of brushing her teeth, putting makeup on, and generally making herself more human, she finally starts feeling hungry. Lydia's not in the bedroom when she comes back out, thank God, so she grabs her knife from the side table and goes out to the kitchen.

Boyd's hanging out at the kitchen table, reading and eating some eggs. "Morning," he says. 

Allison means to say good morning, but what comes out is, "Have you seen Lydia?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Do you mean, has Lydia stormed through here crying, because you guys are a soap opera?"

"No. That's not what I meant."

"Okay," Boyd says. "Well, she went back to her house."

"Ah."

"There's pancakes in the fridge," Boyd says, and goes back to reading.

Allison thinks about Lydia while she eats her pancakes. She thinks about Lydia while she packs her stuff up and thanks Stiles for saving her life. She thinks about Lydia while she drives back to the Argent house.

Then she starts doing some research.

She's always traveled east-west, for the most part. There are more hunters on the East Coast and in the Midwest, but there are usually jobs anyway. Supernatural stuff is all over the place. But she gets hits for Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and San Jose - and then she starts reconsidering some things.

"Day trips," she mutters. She could solve cases in under a week, and come back to Beacon Hills for a couple days. That's almost like normal dating. Kind of.

It wouldn't work, she thinks. There's no way. She wants it to, so she's fooling herself into believing it's possible. But Lydia will get involved with her math stuff, and she still has to manage her fashion empire, and eventually Allison will have to travel for longer than a week. Lydia won't want to go with her. It won't work.

But - she wants to try.

In the end, she gives herself a night to sleep on it. When she wakes up the next day, from a fuzzy dream involving more kissing Lydia than Allison's really comfortable with, it's to the same feeling she had the night before. It won't work, there's no way. But Allison wants to try.

She thinks about making a powerpoint or something else that Lydia would digest easily. But in the end, she just tosses her travel bags in her car and drives over to Lydia's.

Lydia opens the door before Allison makes it all the way up the walk. "Hey," Allison says. "How's, um, the math?"

"Going swimmingly," Lydia says. "I'll be a Fields medalist before I'm 40."

"Cool," Allison says. "I'm headed out."

"Clearly," Lydia says. "Where to this time? Maryland? France? Far away from here, I assume."

"Portland, actually," Allison says. "I should be gone for a week, maybe a week and a half. Not long."

Lydia blinks.

"Then I figured I could stay for awhile," Allison says. "A few weeks, anyway. I can earn some extra money at the twins' studio."

"I see."

"I'm saying we should try to date," Allison says. "Then maybe when you're a Fields medalist, we can travel again."

Lydia studies her, looking her up and down in a way that's uncomfortably reminiscent of a high school movie. "Hmm," she says. "Well, this isn't the best sales pitch a girl's ever given me."

That's a clear enough answer. "I'll go, then," Allison says. She turns around.

Lydia's hand shoots out and catches Allison's wrist. Allison turns around. "I wasn't _done_ ," Lydia says. "The answer's yes. Obviously."

"Oh," Allison says. "Well. That's good."

Lydia smirks at her. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes," Allison says, and steps forward, kissing Lydia.

It doesn't feel like magic. It just feels good.

"Wow," Allison says when they pull apart.

Lydia plays with a lock of her hair. "Sure you don't want to put your trip off?"

"I need to go," Allison says. "But I'll be back."

"You'd better be," Lydia says. She smiles, then, sharp and knowing. "I'll be thinking about you."

Allison laughs. "You'd better be," she says, and kisses Lydia one more time. "See you in a week."

This time, driving out of Beacon Hills doesn't feel like she's running away from something. She has a chance to come back. She has a chance at having a girlfriend, of all things.

Allison blasts the Spice Girls all the way to Oregon.


End file.
